


The Sun and Other Stars

by Reneehart



Series: A Danger to Himself and Others [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gratuitous Sexual Tension, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal will wait though he can be a patient cannibal, Is that a thing, It is now, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Phone Sex, Will Graham is a Cannibal, and hannibal is a gentleman slowly losing his mind, but thats a given, hahahaha unless....?, i just realized that sounds like a daddy kink, its not, like just fuck already, murder baby and murder daddy back at it again, murder family but not really, no it isnt, nothing as prevalent as the prequel but still present and mentioned frequently, oh also torture and murder, relationships are hard when youre both power bottoms, sexual healing, the prequel is pretty necessary, they make it work by switching, they're in a weird quasi relationship, will is kind of a tease, will loves him too but its complicated and denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 194,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: SEQUEL TO THAT WHICH IS CALLED MADNESSTwo years since returning to Hannibal's office, Will has left again, this time for college, and with the unspoken agreement that he would come back once more. He does, sooner than expected, and with another demand of the Chesapeake Ripper; he wants in on all three kills of his sounder this time, and Hannibal is more than happy to oblige his young protege.But a problem arises when the FBI starts making connections between several murders, and Jack Crawford comes to the horrifying realization that the Chesapeake Ripper not only worships another serial killer- they're working together.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Original Character(s)
Series: A Danger to Himself and Others [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856773
Comments: 961
Kudos: 757





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

“ _...as a wheel turns_ _smoothly_ _, free from jars, my will and my desire were turned by love, The love that moves the sun and the other stars.”  
__-Dante, Paradiso_

Hannibal pulled himself through the crowd gracefully, smiling widely and tipping his head in greeting as he passed. His fingers were pinched around the stem of a champagne flute, half-consumed after it was risen in the air and sipped in a toast to the newly wedded couple.

He loved weddings. He was not an immovable man, and the romantic in him was always swayed by the lovingly spoken vows between the betrothed. Love was its own sort of poetry, turning even those less skilled in the written word to poets. A language of its own crafted by memories and happiness, diction and cadence found in shared jokes and comfort in the arms of another. The receptions that followed were just as enthralling, rituals strewn together in a culmination of adoration. Slow dances across a tiled floor as the delicate notes of a love song shifted above, speeches and toasts made in honor of the couple.

It was hard not to be swept away in the spirit; in the joy and love and life beginning anew, even if he did not personally know the couple except in name. The bride was the daughter of a former colleague from his days as a surgeon, and he would be remiss to turn down an invitation simply because he had no personal relationship with her.

“Hannibal!” a voice called, and he turned in the direction of it with a smile affixed in place.

“Marshall,” he returned warmly, approaching the man. His cheeks were ruddy, reddened by his indulgence in the open bar and flutes of champagne carted around on silver trays. Glassy eyes crinkled merrily at Hannibal, and he threw his arms outward, one settling around his wife’s shoulder and the other around his daughter’s, pinching the white veil. “Thank you for inviting me to such a lovely event. And congratulations,” he said, turning to the bride and raising his champagne in a private toast.

She smiled, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks. “Thank you for coming.”

“Hopefully you’ll return the favor soon, Hannibal,” Marshall said in a chortle, eyebrows waggling salaciously. “Have you brought a date with you tonight? A future Missus Lecter?”

His wife, Vivian, pinched her lips, swatting at her husband in a way which was meant to seem playful but belied her embarrassment, eyes narrowing for only a second before softening. “That hardly seems appropriate,” she muttered, words terse.

Hannibal chuckled goodnaturedly, lips pulling into a smirk. “I take no offense. And I hope that, should I ever be the one upon the altar, that the one standing opposite me will be well worth the wait,” he said, settling the flute to his lips and taking an indulgent sip. He felt warm, the alcohol a pleasant heat in his belly that spread across his chest and cheeks, the ballroom filled with so many bodies that the air was compressed with their mingled breaths. The music resonated within him, vibrating against the floor and sending tremors up his legs.

“Oh! Have you met Vivian’s friend? Mara? You would simply adore her- she’s a dancer. She went to Julliard, right?” Marshall said, turning to his wife for confirmation and grinning broadly when she nodded. “Yes, Julliard! Fabulous dancer. You might have even seen her perform before. Shall I introduce you?”

Hannibal finished the rest of his champagne, bubbling foam clinging against the sloping walls of the slim bulb. He set it down on the tray of a passing waiter with a quiet thanks, turning back to Marshall with a polite smile. “I am always delighted to meet new people, especially one so talented.”

Marshall chuckled, pulling his arms away from the two women and settling a warm palm between Hannibal’s shoulders, clammy even through the several layers of his formal wear. “Excellent. I’m certain you two will hit it off, you have so much in common,” he said, with all the merriment of a drunk believing he’s bestowed a precious gift onto someone.

‘ _I sincerely doubt that,’_ Hannibal thought bemusedly, offering only a chuckle to abate the inebriated man. He had no reason to dislike Mara, and he was certain she would prove to be an invigorating date for the rest of the evening, but his patience was already waning with the man beside him. The hours had dragged since the initial ceremony, and most of the guests in attendance were well into the celebration. Heads tossed back in unrestrained delight, intoxicated laughter ringing through the space. He loved weddings, but there was a point where the indulgence often veered into something unrefined. Bordering on lewd and it was quickly reaching that point. Gone was the delicate romance, swiftly being replaced by boorishness.

“Who knows? Perhaps a year from now we’ll be back here for your wedding, hmm?” he said, using the hand settled on Hannibal’s back to clap him fondly. He guided him across the ballroom, pausing every so often to wave or shout something at someone as they passed. He came to an abrupt halt beside a table, bending forward at the waist to speak quietly to a woman seated at the otherwise empty table.

Hannibal glanced down, recognizing the woman in the sage green gown. The widow Lucille Sutcliffe, the wife of a former colleague of Marshall’s and he shifted closer, catching the tail end of the conversation.

“...for being here, I know Vivian was always delighted when she saw you at these sort of events. She’s right over there if you’d like to-”

“Actually, I was just about to get going,” Lucille interrupted, her voice quiet as she grabbed a small purse set on the table before her. “Thank you for inviting me. It was a beautiful ceremony, and your daughter is lovely.” She rose from the chair, folding a knit shawl over her forearm and making a sudden departure, Marshall’s mouth hung open with words he didn’t have a chance to say.

He clamped his lips shut, shaking his head as he turned back to Hannibal. When he next spoke, it was in as discreet a whisper someone as drunk as he could manage, words slurring with the lowered volume. “I didn’t want to invite her what with the whole-” he trailed off, flourishing a hand through the air in a fluttering motion. “But Vivian insisted.”

Hannibal rose a brow and tilted his head to the side, feigning ignorance.

Marshall sighed as if put out, but Hannibal knew he was elated to share his gossip, tucking even closer against him to keep the words away from the partygoers. “The word through the grapevine is that the FBI discovered some child pornography while they were investigating Donald's murder. But they kept it all hush-hush. Ill will, speaking of the dead and all that,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Hannibal frowned, muted horror and repulsion pulling at his face. “How awful,” he said. It was wrong, the information distorted in the way rumors tended to be. The FBI had made no discovery, their investigation surface level to preserve the privacy of the victim and his family. It wasn’t until two years later that Lucille herself discovered it, finally summoning the strength to clear out her husband’s home office and finding it neatly tucked away in several books on his shelf. Perhaps he thought it was safer than storing it digitally; where physical evidence could be destroyed, the other was forever encoded in ones and zeros, digitized crimes stored for eternity. He probably didn't account for it being discovered posthumously. 

Alana had been particularly distraught when she learned of it, appearing at Hannibal’s doorstep at eleven in the evening. She had spent two hours oscillating between asking if Hannibal knew anything and answering the question for herself, knowing his responses were sealed behind the veil of doctor-patient confidentiality but wanting them anyway. She drank a full bottle of wine in the process, and eventually fell asleep in his guest bedroom.

When she awoke, it was with a headache and blank spaces in her memory where she had forgotten about the praises she sang to the Chesapeake Ripper, unaware that he sat beside her, drinking them up the way she did the expensive bottle of Malbec.

Nothing more had been said on the matter- Will was no longer a patient for either of them and was a nearly five-hour drive away in college, where he lived for the past two years. Whatever had happened was in the past, and he was moving forward, as far away from Baltimore and Wolf Trap as he could manage in the time being.

Marshall cleared his throat, drawing Hannibal’s focus away from his straying thoughts. “Anyway, hardly the sort of thing to talk about at a wedding. Which was why I didn’t want to invite her to begin with-” he trailed off.

Not the sort of thing one discussed at a wedding, but he had a hard time not discussing it.

“Then let us bury the subject,” Hannibal interjected, smiling politely. “I believe you promised to introduce me to a talented young woman?”

Marshall blinked owlishly before sputtering a laugh, eyes crinkling merrily. “Ah, of course! I saw her right over here.” He placed his clammy palm on Hannibal’s back once more, leading him towards the woman in question.

She was beautiful, white teeth bright between her stretched lips that pulled into a wide smile as she leaned forward, extending her hand out to Hannibal. He held it gently, lips brushing across her knuckles. She had the lithe body of a skilled dancer wrapped within a peach-colored dress, bronze skin shimmering beneath the chandeliers, dark hair with golden highlight tossed in loose curls down her back. Marshall introduced them before feigning an excuse to leave, winking salaciously at Hannibal as he brushed beside him.

"Marshall tells me you're a fantastic dancer. Is there anything I might have seen you in?" he asked, smiling softly.

She hummed shyly, cheeks flushed from champagne and the praise. "Most recently I've been performing as Odette in a production of Swan Lake at the Murphy Center. We still have a few more weeks of shows planned," she said.

"An excellent ballet. I've yet to see that particular production, though I must ask which ending your rendition features?"

She beamed, pleased at Hannibal's knowledge of the work and the various iterations. "It's the Mariinsky version of it."

He tutted, eyes glistening teasingly. "I admit the Mariinsky isn't my favorite version, though I'm sure you perform it beautifully."

"Not a fan of happy endings?" she asked coquettishly, eyelashes fanning as she glanced up at him.

"On the contrary, I adore happy endings. Especially when its bestowed upon two young lovers besting the demon who cursed them for so long. But I admit, I do adhere to the school of thought that sometimes a happy ending where one did not originally exist can seem forced, and even threaten the integrity of the story trying to be told," he said with a slow roll of his shoulder. He tilted his head, glancing up at the ceiling- gilded gold with large chandeliers flickering with faux candles, hoping and half-succeeding to capture the warmth of a flame. "Not all happy endings look the same, either. I have a bit of fondness for the one performed by the American Ballet Theater. A more modern reproduction, but one that adheres to the heart of the original while still presenting a happy ending."

She furrowed her brows. "Don't they both die in that one?"

"Yes, but in their sacrifice, the curse is broken, and they ascend to heaven in an embrace. What happier ending can there be than an eternity spent with their beloved? There is so much suffering and anguish in our world, and they've been freed of that, leaving only joy and each other to stretch before them," he reasoned, and she nodded slowly, considering her words as she sipped on her champagne. 

"When you put it like that, I see what you're saying," she agreed, setting the empty glass on the table behind her. "I suppose there is a sort of romance about it."

He smiled, eyes sliding to the dance floor beside them, tables scattered in a ring around it. Dresses flourished with twirls, heels clicking against the parquet flooring. "Would you be so kind as to do me the honor of dancing with someone so talented as yourself?" he asked warmly, voice rich and flirtatious as he held his hand out, palm facing skyward.

She accepted Hannibal’s proffered hand with a grin, and he swept her onto the dance floor, where he spent the rest of the evening, drawing peeling laughs and pleased smiles when he demonstrated he was no amateur himself.

~x~

It was nearly two in the morning by the time he returned home, flicking on the lights to his foyer and hanging his coat. He smelled of sweat and champagne, even if he kept his consumption to a safe moderation for the long drive ahead of him. Marshall had insisted he stay, that there were still a few rooms set aside in their block at the hotel just in case anyone lost themselves in the celebration but Hannibal declined.

He preferred being home when he could manage it, preferring the comfort and familiarity of his walls and furnishings to the strange luxuries of a hotel. They felt like another world, and though he didn’t mind traveling on occasion, he found a desire to settle was growing more and more ardent with each passing year. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of attending a wedding and the wistful air that came with it. Love was always shiny and brilliant in the beginning, like a rush of dopamine and oxytocin that would slowly taper and wither away in time. But for now, it was a beautiful thing, so stunning it pulled others into its joy like a black hole.

He made his way into the kitchen, settling the contents of his pocket onto the steel counter. Keys, wallet- a neatly folded floral napkin with Mara’s name and number written across the soft outline of peonies. He pulled a glass from the cupboard, striding towards the fridge but came to a stop with his hand grasping the handle, realization dawning on him that something in the home wasn’t quite right. There was a soft breeze fluttering against his cheek like a breath, the smell of the outside- thick with the scent of rain and freshly turned soil in his garden. A trickling sound filled his head, bouncing around his skull as his eyes fell to the sink, a steady stream of water dripping into the basin below. He glanced upwards to the window above it. The latch was broken from the force of being pushed open, and there was mud smeared on the windowpane from a dirty shoe- a trail of it smeared to his floors, still wet.

He set the glass back on the counter as noiselessly as he could manage, reaching out to the knife block beside him and pulling out a recently sharpened blade. Any distinctive smell of an intruder had been washed away by the smell of rain, and he turned slowly- gaze held to the floor where the muddy footprints came to a stop at the door to his pantry, a sliver of light cutting through where the door was not fully pressed into the frame.

He pinched his lips, frowning at the sight.

In all his years in this life- in his carefully maintained facade of normalcy- he had never come under suspicion, yet the sight of his pantry door pulled open was an unnerving one. The broken latch on the window and messy path of dirt and mud spoke of an intruder within his home that- whether or not he was searching for something in particular or just looking for valuables- had made a grave mistake. They would not leave his home as easily as they entered in, and he crept slowly to the pantry, pulling the door open and glancing around the small space.

Golden light fell on the shelves from the above fixture, illuminating the emptiness and the first few steps to his basement, hidden door tossed aside.

The muscles in his jaw clenched at the sight of it, and he closed the pantry behind him before descending down the steps. He was familiar enough with the stairs by now to know how to walk when he wanted to make as much noise as possible- a terrifying descent, the echoing sounds building upon the fear of whatever unfortunate soul found themselves strung from the ceiling or strapped to a surgical table. He made certain to step to the far end, avoiding the croaking middle that was beginning to wear with use, sinking inward. He was silent as he came to the basement, the pale, white light buzzing noisily above him and the fan of the refrigeration unit churning with enough sound that he would not be heard.

There was someone in the center of the room, back towards him and he considered a slow approach, sneaking up on the intruder with his knife ready to strike before he caught sight of the curls hidden beneath the tied cap and lowered the blade to his side.

“Will?” he asked, startling the young man who turned to him with a gasp, eyes wide.

He had not seen him since he first left for school- his summer break spent working multiple jobs to offset the building debt left in the wake of his studies. The time spent apart left a hollow ache of loneliness, though not as painful as it had once been. There was a promise with this separation, an unspoken agreement to return when time allowed for it. Will was not taken from his life, simply displaced for the time being- settling into his newfound freedom and opportunity and he could be patient knowing it was temporary. 

Two years since they had last seen each other or even spoke, and yet it was as if no time had passed at all. A warmth settled in him as the eyes- a gray with shimmering strands of green in this light- softened in recognition at Hannibal, the tension unspooling in his shoulders. He ducked his head, embarrassed to have been caught after breaking and entering into the home and it was only then that Hannibal saw him more clearly, the surprise at his presence swiftly giving way to concern. His lip was split, a cut dividing the swollen bottom lip in half and the start of a bruise was blossoming under his eye, yellow unfurling like a rose across his cheek.

He narrowed his eyes at the sight, descending the final steps until he was striding across the floor. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, reaching a hand out. His fingers curled on Will's chin and he turned his face gently to examine the bruise, pleased to see there were no obvious signs of an orbital fracture. He didn’t move his hand, however, fingers slowly caressing the skin of his jaw, rough from the facial hair that was growing in more evenly now. He looked older with the manicured hair; gone was the wide-eyed and surly boy who averted gazes and hid behind the frames of his glasses, curls brushing over his brow. Replaced by a young man with broadening shoulders and the firm lines of his jaw cut out by the trimmed beard. 

Lips twitched, pulling into a small smile which Hannibal returned as Will cleared his throat and said, “I tried knocking, but you weren’t home. So I sort of helped myself.” He grimaced, looking rueful as he glanced behind him, shirking free of Hannibal’s touch and it was only then he realized Will was wearing a smock, blood-smeared and staining his torso.

His gaze finally pulled away from him, settling on the body spread on the table behind them, blood and bruises mottling the skin. Blood matted the once blond hair, and the back of the head was crumpled inward, collapsing under the force of something hard and blunt. Glassy eyes stared unseeing at the mounted hooks above him, lips parted in a frozen breath, forever held in time.

Will swallowed, turning to glance back at Hannibal. “I...may have done something impulsive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE BOIS ARE BACK IN TOWN! The bois are back in to-o-own! Murder Daddy and Murder Baby (he’s twenty now but he’ll always be a baby) are reunited once more. 
> 
> So I was taking a shower and had an epiphany of what to do with this sequel and now the idea is more fleshed out and there’s a tentative timeline of what’s to come and an ending to build to so I’m less worried that I’ll start posting and then hit a sudden roadblock. I doubt I’ll post as frequently as I did with That Which is Called Madness because that was a more linear story while this one balances a few more characters and more in-depth subplots, but I’m aiming for either once or twice a week for updating.


	2. Entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less a chapter one and more an prologue, part 2.

**Chapter One: Entropy**

Will hated college.

Any optimism he had about the prospect had been dashed by the third week of it, and he spent more time than he cared to admit debating the merits of dropping out and returning to Wolf Trap to work with his dad. He hated leaving his dogs behind, the facetime conversations he had with his dad where the phone would inevitably be turned over to face the dogs- tails wagging and eyes wide in excitement at the familiar voice- were a poor substitute. He missed running his hands through fur and feeling their wet, scratching tongues tug against his cheek. The first time he returned home from school during the winter break all six of the dogs tried to sleep in his narrow bed with him, and he had been too torn to push any of them off. He spent the night pressed firmly against the wall, getting no sleep.

It made the thought of returning all the less appealing and he cursed himself for choosing a major so dependent on labs that he couldn’t transfer to online schooling. That he was forced to pack and leave the comfort of his home to share a too-small room with someone else. Privacy was nonexistent, and it was with a grim realization that he came to the conclusion college wasn’t much better than a hospital.

Of course, there was more freedom. And he could come and go from the campus as he pleased as there were no strict curfews. And he wasn’t forced into any juvenile activities with the term _‘therapy’_ tacked on the end to make the thought of popsicle art less insulting. But there was still a disturbing lack of ownership, a piece of himself he couldn’t retain. The showers were all housed in one large room, and though he was spared the indignity of an aid sitting beside the door and his washing time contained to a set schedule, it was still humiliating to shower around so many, even in an enclosed stall. He would awake as early as possible in the hopes that it would be less crowded, holding his toiletries and change of clothes tight to his chest and disappearing into the shower stall furthest from the door, regretting it when it just gave him a greater distance to traverse when he was done.

There was no privacy, especially with a roommate such as his that had taken Will’s habit of staying in the room when he wasn’t at work or in class as a personal affront.

By the sixth week, his roommate Chris had informed him he didn’t care if Will was there or not, he would be bringing his girlfriends back and it was up to Will to decide what to do from there.

He spent a lot of time in the library, obsessively checking his watch and wondering exactly how long someone might need to avoid an awkward run-in.

It was one such evening that brought him here, of all places- a party hosted by a fraternity that he had been stupid enough to agree to attend if only to avoid sitting in the library for hours until it would be safe to return to the dorm. Stupid enough to hand over thirty bucks cover charge for him and his date, a girl he’d been seeing for a few months from his organic chemistry class.

In fairness, the night had started well enough. The party was exactly as overwhelming as he knew it would be, music swelling and booming around him, too-many bodies pressing together in the sparsely furnished house. It smelled of pot and cheap beer, and the cup in his hands- sticky from where someone had knocked against him and half his drink sloshed over the rim- was filled with the tepid and flat beverage. It was watered down and tasted repulsive but he drank it anyway, in part for something to do but also because he hoped that he might enjoy himself more if he drank enough of it.

That maybe there was a part of him- a _normal_ part of him- that he could unlock after reaching a certain stage of inebriation. He knew some people had different identities sealed within them- some mean and brash and some sociable and fun- though he had never managed to drink enough to draw out any of the possible identities sealed within him. He drank enough to feel the press of something on his brain, the warmth that made his limbs and stomach heavy and his face flushed. But never enough to become somebody else. Somebody more likable.

Callie seemed to like him enough at least, dragging him through the party. She would pause every so often, laughing and chatting with someone she recognized while Will stood uncomfortably by her side, sipping the warm beer and participating just enough in the conversation to not seem like the stranger he felt. She must have been pleased by his performance, because after nearly an hour- and three more drinks later, still disappointingly the same Will he had always been- she was dragging him up the stairs and pushing him into an empty room.

She shut the door, the sound muffling with the action. There was still the undulation of the music, trembling against the floors and the walls and the dragging pulse of the bass from the stereo. Laughter and chatter and drunken shouting blurred together, turning into white noise. The air was clearer here, less humid than the air was nearly sticky from all the exhalation of the partygoers and he took a sharp inhale, eyes closing in relief. “Thank god, I was about to lose my-”

His words were cut off, swallowed, when Cassie shoved him down onto the unmade bed, pressing her lips to his and kissing him fiercely. She settled on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips, and wound her arms across his shoulders, deepening the kiss. She tasted fruity, the effervescent taste of whatever alcoholic seltzer she drank as they wove through the crowd and he hummed appreciatively at the taste, tongue slipping against her own as he chased more of it.

Lips slotted together, and her tongue prodded at the seam of his mouth, slipping inside and pressing against his own. The sound was wet in the quiet room, and it was after a few stretching minutes that he realized his hands were sat uselessly at his side and that he should probably do something with them. He was always unsure of what, an instinct from his brain missing as if he didn’t recognize his own appendages, and he considered settling them against the curve of her face but decided that felt too intimate. Too much like a romantic gesture and instead slowly grasped onto her waist, a loose hold over the scrunched up fabric of her dress.

She moaned at that, ground herself against where he was hardening in his jeans, and the motion sent currents through him, hot and electric. His senses were sharpened, the smell of her body spray a cloying sweetness- coconut, an odd scent for the spring, he thought- and the taste of the watermelon flavored seltzer bright on his tongue. Every sigh and moan she passed between their mouths rang in his ears, the roll of her hips against him pulling moans of his own.

Fingers dragged across his arms, squeezing the taut muscle with a pleased sigh, before slipping between them, fumbling with his belt buckle without pulling away from the kiss.

He broke apart first, fingers curling gently on her wrist and pulling it away. “We don’t have to do- I like just kissing,” he said with a flickering smile, his words breathless.

She laughed, chewing her lips- the mauve lipstick smeared and feathering around her cupid's bow. “The gentleman act is cute and all, Will, but trust me, I know I don’t _have_ to do anything. I want to,” she said, lowering her head once more and capturing his lips in another kiss, hands resuming their place on his belt. He grimaced, pulling her hands away once more.

“ _I_ don’t want to,” he said, flinching as her face pulled into an expression of confusion, affronted by the words.

“It certainly _feels_ like you want to,” she said, rolling her hips in a sharp, aggressive dig against the bulge pressing between them, eliciting a hiss that Will was unable to clamp his lips down on. She smiled, and this time Will put a hand on her shoulder and gently- but firmly- pushed her away, shuffling towards the center of the bed to create space between them.

“Can we just keep kissing, please? I can finger you or-or eat you out if you want,” he offered, not entirely enthused by the idea but he knew she liked it. She would coo with languid delight that he was the first to ever bring her to orgasm, the only guy who seemed more concerned with her pleasure than his, and the wrinkle between her brows would always smooth with that, any disagreement between them forgotten.

It was easier and kinder to be seen as selfless in bed than it was dysfunctional, but the truth was harder to conceal when she was insistent on returning the favor. He was always able to distract with his fingers and even his mouth until she was too pliant and sleepy to care and that matter would be dropped until the next time.

He had a feeling she wouldn’t be so easily appeased this time, her scoff echoing off the walls. “I don’t _want_ that. Come on, Will, we’ve been seeing each other for like two months now. It’s getting embarrassing, throwing myself at you only for you to push me away,” she said, voice spiked in humiliation. “Are you not attracted to me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and raising a hand in the air to emphasize his words. “No, you’re really...you’re-” he fumbled for the right words; _hot_ and _sexy_ sounded too foreign, too unlike himself to be sincere but he knew it was what she wanted to hear. That the connotation was different from _beautiful_ or _lovely_ and that those words would only upset her further. Yet, too much time had passed to say _any_ word without it seeming a lie so instead, he said, “I _am_ attracted to you. I just...would rather take it slow.”

“Well, maybe it’s too slow for me,” she said in a hiss, arms folding over her chest. “I would rather be single than with someone who makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me.”

He winced. “There _isn’t_ ,” he insisted, unable to say that _he_ was the one that had something wrong with him. That at best his arousal would wane and he would grow soft before the natural conclusion of the event or at worst he would be clutched in panic, fear spiking through him so suddenly that it held him like talons gripping a small prey. Neither option was preferable, so it was best to simply avoid the possibility. Accept that there was something _wrong_ and _broken_ with him but he could make it okay if he just compensated in other ways.

He thought it would be enough.

“You’re a good kisser, Will, but I need someone who at least _wants_ to fuck me without being a pussy about it,” she said, and Will bristled at the words, a biting, hollow laugh pulled from between his teeth.

“Right, okay,” he muttered between wry chuckles, running a hand through his curls. “Well, I hope you find someone who can do just that for you. I’d hate for you to be stuck with someone who’s such a pussy.” He pushed himself up from the bed, any evidence of his arousal mercifully gone as he strode through the room and back into the party. He slammed the door open with such force that he startled a couple tightly pressed against the wall, a girl he vaguely recognized from some class glancing at him with wide eyes, hand pulling back from where it was shoved down the pants of the guy she was with. He scowled at them, the gesture bordering on a bitter snarl as he turned and made his way back down the stairs.

He envied them, their ease with something he struggled with. Shameless in their wanton display with only the tight press of their bodies and the angle they positioned themselves in enough to preserve their modesty. Something that should be so natural and had never been a problem before. When he was still good enough at dissociating from the things happening to his body that it operated on its own, acting in an almost perfunctory manner. It was humiliating, and he had simply been thankful enough that the first girlfriend he had moved further with had been kind enough to keep his poor performance between them.

Or maybe she pitied him, and it was perhaps the only instance he would accept such an abhorrent thing as pity so long as it meant preserving his dignity.

He shoved his way through the crowd when others refused to part for him, mumbled curses spat at his back that he ignored. He was focused only on the front door which he slammed for good measure as he passed through it, the cold air pleasant on his fevered flesh, stinging his lungs. He took a sharp inhale, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm as he finally allowed himself to slow down. The anger twisting within him settling into something pointed inward instead of outward.

It was stupid to think he could have normal things. That he could have what others had so easily.

Every shred of normalcy in his life had been fought for, with digging nails and biting teeth and it should come as no surprise that the comfort of a relationship would be the same.

He was less certain that was worth fighting for. It seemed greedy; excessive. And it was exhausting really, dealing with the mercurial moods of another when dealing with himself was already an arduous task.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, frowning at the time blinking up at him. It was only nine and he let out a long, self-deprecating groan. Still too early for his roommate to let him back into their dorm and he glanced at his jeep, trying to decide between the pathetic option of driving aimlessly for a few hours or the even more pathetic option of sleeping inside it when movement caught his eye.

The street was empty- the house behind him bright and loud where the world outside of it was not. All the smokers and people stepping outside for fresh air had done so on the back porch where the scent of marijuana was the thickest. Cars sat in an unmoving and dark parade on the curb except for one obscured by some overgrown shrubs and Will traipsed further along the path to see a student he recognized, having sat beside him for several classes. Noah, he thought, eyes sliding from the familiar face to the hands shoving a girl inside the backseat of his car, arms limp and head lolling to the side.

“Hey,” Will said. Noah turned to face him even as he kept a hand on the girl to hold her upright.

“Hey,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. They slanted to the interior of the car before settling back on Will, a wolfish grin pulling on his lips. “Freshmen, you know? Have a little too much to drink too early. Thought I’d bring her back to her dorm before she got in any trouble.”

“What a good Samaritan you are,” Will muttered, his voice sharpened with disbelief. “But maybe you should save yourself the trouble and just use her phone to find and call a friend of hers to get her.”

Noah’s smile twitched. “Come on, man- Ben, right? You know me, Ben, I’m not that kind of guy. I’m just trying to help her out and all her friends are probably at the party so why don’t you just-”

His words came to an abrupt halt when Will crossed the distance between them, his fist swinging in an arc through the air. The sound of his knuckles colliding with Noah’s nose was grotesque, cartilage crunching and splintering beneath his fist. Blood was pouring freely from his nostrils, smearing across his lips as he spat and gasped in surprise at the punch.

“What the _fuck-_ ” he hissed, one hand fluttering to curl over his nose, the other swinging a quick jab in retaliation. Will’s head snapped back, pain blooming beneath his watering eyes and it was as if something tenuous in him snapped. His tightly reigned control that had been pulled taut for far too long snapping like a rubber band stretched too far. Spring-loaded and reactionary, he snarled, leaping forward and acting entirely on instinct.

Hands found throat, squeezing tightly against the windpipe until the breath stilled beneath his grasp, slamming Noah hard against the car. He rose a knee to pin against his lower stomach and hold him in place, grinding against the soft flesh of his belly. Noah gasped, eyes bulging, and he made a gurgling sound, breath leaving him in a hiss. He jerked against the firm hold, clutching hands pulling at Will’s wrists, nails dragging down his skin in burning pulls, red lines cutting across pale flesh and blood beading against it. But Will did not relent, snarling as he leaned further into the hold, and Noah gave a weak growl as he flailed a punch out, connecting with Will’s lip.

His head tossed back, teeth dragging across his own flesh and tasting blood. His grip slackened, enough for Noah to push him off and he stumbled to the ground. Pain radiated across his shoulder as he fell against a rock, the breath knocked from his lungs. He blinked up at the night sky- clouds thick and stormy and hiding the stars away- and pulled himself up with a groan, just in time to see Noah stagger around his car, sputtering coughs leaving his spit-slicked and blood-stained mouth. He rose a hand to rub at his sore neck, marked with the memory of Will's hands like a cruel necklace, the other clutching around keys, and Will acted without thinking.

Something carnal and feral took control as he grabbed the same rock he had fallen against, slipping on the dampened grass the car was pulled onto as he covered the distance between them and hoisted it above his head.

The first strike was weak, arms shaking and trembling with the residual pain of his fall and Noah gasped sharply as he was pushed against the hood of his car. His face bounced off the aluminum, bones splintering and metal crumpling before he slipped to the ground. Blood saturated his hair, spilling out in thick rivulets and he tried to crawl, elbows dragging himself back toward the house.

Toward help.

Will stepped over him, feet on either side of the pulling, limping body, bracketing his lower back. He raised the rock over his head once more, taking the time to stabilize his stance, to firm his hold.

He swung it down, and the sound of its collision was _satisfying_.

A balm to his frayed nerves. Like the first inhalation of smoke to an addict or the first taste of bitter liquor after years of sobriety. The gurgling gasp, strangled between straining lungs, and the sound of bones shattering, turning to fragments and the sickening wet squelch of brains and blood beneath the weight.

Something unspooled within him, a wire he hadn’t realized was pulled taut loosening. Becoming languid and relaxed.

The euphoric and heady rush returned to him, instantly familiar even if it had been years since he last felt it.

_Too long._

~x~

He didn’t realize he was heading to Baltimore until he was already halfway there; as if he was drawn by a magnet, an instinct that superseded his thoughts. Yet, he did not turn back once he realized where he was heading. Though he did consider turning his phone on to call Hannibal and warn him before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk of the tracking or the call appearing on his record. He had already made too many impulsive decisions to risk another; killing someone in an uncontrolled environment, with no plan for disposal or preparation.

He had acted fast enough after the kill, pulling his jacket off and winding it around Noah’s head to absorb the blood, working quickly to toss him in the trunk before too much could stain the ground. There was some on the grass, absorbing into the earth, and he had used his socked foot to disturb the dirt and uproot it, using the illuminating glow of his phone to ensure all traces had been buried. The air was thick and damp with the promise of rain and he knew whatever could be found would be washed away, swept onto the streets, and into the slotted drain to the sewers below. Washing away the evidence of his crime and by the time police connected the missing student to this party, there would be nothing left.

He had a killing instinct, he realized, his heart steady in a moment that should have made it hammer; should have inspired peeling waves of adrenaline to flood and crush him. The panic should have overwhelmed him and it was with a bitter, unrealized laugh that sat in his throat and moved no further than that as he thought how odd it was. To have an instinct for murder yet be unsure of where to place his hands when another body pressed against his, too slow to understand he was pulled into a bedroom not for a moment to breathe but to be shoved against a bed.

He sighed, gripping the unfamiliar steering wheel. There was a body in the trunk, a temporary grave made of cheap upholstery, aluminum, and loose sports equipment. He thought of pharaohs in Egypt who were entombed with their prized possessions, believing they might carry over with them in passage to the afterlife and thought it was fitting.

At least he could play football for all eternity.

His eyes slid down to the clock on the dashboard, the hour nearing toward midnight. He had wasted nearly half an hour waiting for the girl- her name was Emily, he discovered after using her limp finger to unlock her phone and call her roommate- to be picked up, shivering on the ground beside her as he shucked his sweater off to lay her down on it. The grass was still damp from the earlier rain and he wanted to spare her the indignity of grass and mud stains on her dress.

Her roommate seemed dubious when she arrived, eyes narrowed at Will, but her suspicion ebbed when he volunteered his name and number; suggested a trip to the doctor though he was sure nothing happened. _“They dropped her and ran when I yelled out to them. No, I didn’t recognize them,”_ he lied easily enough, and he helped carry Emily to the passenger seat of her car, waiting for them to disappear down the road before beginning his own journey.

A much longer journey and he grimaced at the thought of waking Hannibal in the middle of the night to help him clean up his mess. Grimaced at the thought that they had not spoken in two years- too busy with school and work to make time for the man who had a way of dominating his thoughts. It wasn’t simply for lack of physical time so much as it was that Hannibal was an obsession. An addiction he couldn’t quite shake and he knew he wouldn’t be able to be both things at once. To be a college student readying for his future and...whatever exactly he was around Hannibal Lecter. It was less definable, defying categorization. Something without a name for he doubted anything quite like it had ever existed before.

He had tried, he really did. Tried to purge himself of the man and of his influence. Tried to cut the tumor out and irradiate the toxins that had seeped so deeply into him they mingled with his own. And he was so successful he tricked himself into believing his own act. He was an anxiety-riddled mess who turned to violence at night like a bedtime story or twisted lullaby and blamed it on his tired mind. He was not responsible for the things he thought of on the edge of sleep and therefore it was not him thinking those things.

He managed some semblance of normal, pretended to be something that felt comfortable but insincere. A well-worn costume made of flannel and glasses and averted gazes. A lie to appease something within him that mattered less and less as time passed.

It was a performance so riveting he had enthralled himself with the act, convinced he had done away with that part of him for good until he stood in the courtyard on a college tour and made eye contact with Garrett Jacob Hobbs and he simply _knew_. As if a lobe of his brain was dedicated solely to deciphering the people around him, something sharp and cruel within him recognizing something sharp and cruel within them.

Like recognized like.

The swarm of flies assumed the shape of a man and he made them scatter, the same instinct taking hold of him that had guided his fists with Noah. He had been smarter then. Had prepared enough for that to devise an alibi- had even made certain Hobb's daughter would be away to avoid spilling more blood than necessary. He stole smocks and gloves while touring the science facilities, plastic socks that fitted over his shoes to hide the tread of his sneakers; a modest supply of tools for the evening forming together in his head.

There was no debate about what he would do, no internal struggle that tore his mind asunder. Only resolve in the anticipation of his actions. A quiet hunger and the taste of saliva pooling on his tongue.

It had been a need the moment he saw the man, a compulsion he couldn’t ignore, blood smearing his palms in half-moon shapes from the dig of his nails. But he had been smart, had settled his breathing and quickening heart rate enough to plan and think ahead.

Not like this time.

He had acted without thinking, and now he was driving across state lines in a stolen car to drop the body in the trunk off at a serial killer’s home, presenting him like a cat dropping its prey at its owner’s feet.

Hannibal would be smug, of course. Just as he had been when Will arrived at his office, Tupperware warm in his backpack, two years earlier. Only several more dinners together followed before he left for school, resuming his place before the twisted bones and portrait of Leda and the Swan as though nothing had changed.

He did away with the pretense of guilt and self-loathing. Deciding he had fought so hard for himself and the freedom to live as he pleased that it would be a disservice to allow one more obstacle to stand in his way.

And was it so bad, in the end?

Was the world worse off without Garrett Jacob Hobbs there to abduct their daughters? Worse off without Noah to drug the others? Worse off without Donald Sutcliffe to use his position of authority to hurt those most vulnerable? Hannibal may have killed more freely, for reasons that struck Will as petty, but he wasn’t wrong to see the world as one filled with too many pigs fit for slaughter. Too many ungrateful and repugnant pigs who did not follow the rules of civility. Who made the lives of those around them _worse_ in a selfish desire to impose themselves and their whims on the world.

He was doing the world a service, washing and purging it of sins and crimes the way the rain would do to his own, fat drops splashing against the windshield as he crossed into Maryland.

He pulled onto the street of the home just shy of two in the morning, traffic sparse and his foot heavy on the gas. The windows within were dark, just like the windows of all the other homes were. The residential neighborhood was quiet with the night, swathed in the inky blackness of the starless sky and the pelting drops of rain forming puddles in the asphalt. The noise of the engine was loud, obscene in the stillness, and he turned the keys, resting his chin on the steering wheel as he glanced at the imposing building through the blotting drops of rain on the window. The one with secrets in its foundation, bricks like blood-stained teeth.

It felt like returning home. The embodiment of acceptance and sight when others would avert their gaze, meet his true self with repulsion. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it in his time away, having someone he could so wholly be himself around. Someone who spoke a language like his own, words spoken between blood and sharpened teeth.

He sat there for some time, drawing out the moment before he would step inside the home and into the world he had left behind- not forever. Not entirely. Just for a little.

It was getting harder and harder to turn his back on it, and he was already dreading the moment in the morning he would have to return to his building life once more. Slip into his disguise that was getting more uncomfortable with each passing day.

How did Hannibal do it for so long? How did the loneliness not eat away at him, a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied by flesh? How did he not grow so crooked and desperate with the need, sustaining himself in the facade of friendship between those who could never understand him? The many people he hosted and entertained, serving himself on silver platters in the form of his kills and unheard jokes held at a distance; kept at arm's length because they would be horrified by the monster in the garish suit and charming smiles. Years of moving between operas and symphonies and the theater, half-conversations that were never enough to fill his belly.

Will had just arrived and already he missed it, anticipating the loneliness he would feel upon returning to his dorm. The loneliness he would feel when news of Noah’s disappearance would spark and ignite like wildfire across the campus and he would have to pretend to be surprised. To be horrified. To pretend to be something other than what he was.

He sighed, opening the door and slipping out. The air was cool, humid with the rain that dampened his curls so they clung to his forehead, and he made the march up to the front steps, hoping Hannibal wouldn’t be too disgruntled by the abrupt awakening.

Perhaps he would even be just as pleased to see Will as he was to see him.

A rare moment for both of them to shirk out of their respective person suits, ripping the seams of their costumes apart; to be seen and understood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is hard when you're a cannibalistic serial killing himbo in love with another cannibalistic serial killing himbo but don't realize it.
> 
> Next Up: Hannibal cleans up his murder baby and the mess he made; Will proposes an idea.


	3. Ephemeral

**Chapter Two: Ephemeral**

“Sorry about breaking your window,” Will said, wincing as he glanced at the mess left behind in his dash through the kitchen, the mud- now dried- clinging to the slate floors. His composure had been calm and restrained until he realized Hannibal wasn’t home to let him in, panic rising and hitting a crest as the reality struck him. The full force of his foolish and brash actions crashing into him like a wave and he became desperate.

He couldn’t just go back the way he came- where would he dispose of the body? The cramped dorm room where even his collection of snacks were easily discovered and stolen was hardly the place for such a task. There were chemicals he could steal from the chemistry storeroom, highly corrosive acids that might do the trick but the amount he would need for breaking down a fully grown man would be noticed and it would only further implicate a student of his college in Noah's disappearance.

He _needed_ Hannibal’s help because no matter how strong his instinct was, it was still only just that. Instinct with little knowledge and experience and he was hopelessly out of his depth on what to do in the wake of his impulsiveness. How to go about cleaning a mess he created but didn’t plan for and he barely thought about it as he broke into the home. It hardly mattered what happened after; all that mattered was that he pulled the body out of the trunk while he was still shrouded in the cloak of night and was carefully guarded in the basement that felt like protection and security. A feeling so undeserved beneath the mounted meat hooks and whirring fan of the refrigeration unit, surrounded by plastic sheathing and floor drains stained copper- but it was the feeling he had nonetheless.

“No visit from Will Graham is complete until some of my property is destroyed,” Hannibal quipped, chuckling softly. He set a bowl of water on the counter, dipping a washcloth in it and wringing it out with both hands. When all the excess water had been squeezed from the cloth, he reached one hand out to hold Will’s chin, the other dabbing at the dried blood on his lip. “Other than the end, how was your party?”

Will gave a derisive snort, a hollow laugh brushing against Hannibal’s knuckles as the clotted blood peeled away and he was now wiping away fresh blood from his lip. “The end was probably the highlight,” he said through gritted teeth, a blush warming his chest and creeping up his collar as he remembered how the party began. The weight of his girlfriend- _ex-girlfriend_ \- rubbing against him, crowding him with the press of her body and the scent of artificial coconut. The humiliation and anger that writhed within him at her words, at the demands he could not meet because he wasn’t enough.

He sighed, clearing his throat as he tried to push the memory from his mind. It was the least of his worries now. “I shouldn’t have even gone to that stupid party,” he mumbled bitterly as if it was the cause of all his grief this evening and not himself. His dysfunctional self; the monster that delighted in the kill, the thrum of power coursing beneath his flesh like a pulse.

“You did, though. And someone’s night was all the better for it,” Hannibal said, depositing the cloth- white stained red- back into the bowl and grabbing several small squares of gauze which he pressed to Will’s lip with a firm pinch. “Did anyone see you?”

“No,” he answered, certain he hadn’t seen anyone outside the house or inside the cars. He raised his hand to hold the gauze in place. “Car’s too old for a GPS tracker, I turned off both of our phones before leaving and I took the rock I used.”

Hannibal smiled, a small, fleeting gesture as his hand pressed against Will's cheek, his palm warm and his thumb smoothing small circles across his skin. Will had yet to decide if he wanted to pull away from the touch or lean into it before it was already gone, the older man turning from him to dump the water into the sink. His skin felt hot at the ghost of his caress, and he rubbed idly at his face as if he could brush off the lingering burn like dirt. Water sloshed noisily in the basin, nearly drowning out Hannibal’s words as he said, “There will be no way to know for certain if someone saw you until some time has passed.”

Will frowned, nodding slowly. “I know.” Dread pooled in his stomach, anticipating the too many possibilities that sat before him. He imagined returning to campus, cop cars littering the winding streets, and painting the buildings in red and blue lights. Imagined the press of the asphalt into his ribs as he was held down, hands pulled behind his back.

He imagined days, weeks passing with his life undisturbed until the very moment it wasn’t. Suspended in a moment of anxiety and fear that the consequences to his actions would loom over him, consume him eventually.

“Luckily, I’ve found that inebriated party guests provide the best alibis. Too intoxicated to have a sense of time or even refute things that did or did not happen with certainty. And the majority of evidence would come from the car or body, neither of which will be discovered,” Hannibal added. The words loosened the muscles slowly clenching within Will, and he turned them over in his head like a mantra. _The body wouldn’t be discovered. The majority of evidence wouldn’t be discovered._

It was too long a drive for any part of the body to be salvageable for consumption, but there were many uses and ways to dispose of him, Hannibal had assured as he donned his plastic suit and sat opposite Will, a comfort in the familiarity of it. Spring heralded the beginning of gardening season after all and he was healthy enough to provide a promising compost. The tomatoes would be plump and red and the zucchini bright and crisp; he would be consumed in a different way altogether. Truly, Hannibal Lecter did not accommodate vegetarians.

But there was another problem.

Will grimaced, the words strained from him as he said, “about the car...”

“Once your lip is done bleeding, I’ll open the garage for you. Park it there, while it’s still dark, and I’ll take care of the rest,” he answered simply, offering no further explanation as he added, “and I’ll drive you back.”

“That will be like a nine-hour drive for you,” he countered, a weak argument because really, what other choice did he have? His bank account was far too meager to afford the exorbitant cost of public transport for such a length of travel, and he didn’t want to answer the questions his dad would have for him if he used the credit card that was given to him for emergency use only.

“Do you have to be at work tomorrow?” Hannibal asked and then, when he glanced at the clock and saw it was quickly approaching four in the morning, amended, “today?”

“No, I took off the whole weekend to study for some exams coming up,” he answered.

Hannibal nodded, pleased with the information. “Good. It would only look more suspicious if you called out now. You still won’t have the strongest alibi, but circumstantial evidence alone isn’t enough.”

His confidence was assuring, anchoring in a way that Will clutched at, trying to absorb for himself. He felt adrift, lost at sea by his brashness and he tried to ignore the more cynical thoughts that sat like a hefty weight in his head. How many more crimes could he be tied to before it was too many? How many times might he be dragged into a police station before he was once more labeled a danger to himself and others?

Once was a mistake made by the police, twice was a pattern and he felt _stupid_. Foolish to have possibly undone years worth of a meticulously built life all for the fleeting satisfaction of a skull collapsing beneath his hands.

His thoughts only pulled further, dragging into the spiral that it wasn’t his own life threatened by his impulsiveness but Hannibal’s. So tied together in the few crimes shared between them that suspicion couldn't fall on one without the other. All that was needed was the discredit of one of them for their alibis of the other to fall apart, a balancing act that required perfect form at all times.

He shouldn’t have come here. He should have figured out how to deal with it on his own because now if he was tied to the disappearance, and if he was tied Baltimore, then it was only a small association to make before Hannibal was drawn in as well.

_Stupid._

He felt juvenile, small in a way he hadn’t for so long and he startled at the sound of his name, blinking up at Hannibal’s concerned face only inches from his own. His mouth opened, too dry for the apology he wanted to say so instead he swallowed it, grimacing at the rough pull on his throat.

“Only a fool would try to stop a storm coming his way and act a god to the sway of the world, Will,” Hannibal began, voice warm and soft. “It is the wise who strengthen the foundation and board up the windows and accept they are not a god. Sometimes, the storm will weaken before it even arrives, and sometimes it will pull up trees and collapse roofs as it passes. But it always passes, and we have time to prepare.”

_We._ A simple word that meant unity, togetherness. That Will would not be forced to weather the storm alone and it brought with it relief. A thankfulness that he couldn’t give voice to, that sat lodged in his throat and moved no further. He could only nod, his eyes fluttering close as he tilted his head forward, letting his forehead brush against the high arch of Hannibal’s cheekbone. He sighed, expelling his tension with the motion, and slowly pulled back, the air in the room feeling colder now, each touchpoint between like a brand, burning his flesh.

His cut had stopped bleeding, and he pulled the gauze away, licking his lips before he could stop himself; bringing with it a sharp sting.

Hannibal stepped around the island, reaching for his keys. “Come. I’ll ready the garage. After that, I think a shower and some well-deserved rest. You’ll have to dispose of those clothes, but I have something you can wear.”

Will followed without a word, eager for the heat of a shower on his tautly pulled muscles. For the massaging pelt of the water against his flesh like the rain beating on the earth and washing away the blood. If only it were so simple to cleanse himself of the evidence of the crimes, washing away the connections to a crime scene and a victim like he could wash away the sweat and blood. A baptism as his sins swirled down the drain with the expensive body wash.

There was a hesitation to the thought of slipping into bed, though. The idea that he would sleep and usher in a new day, unpredictable and uncontrollable. That each day would bring with it a mounting concern when Noah didn’t appear; until the police were crawling the campus and investigating the party they had both left so abruptly. A childish thought that he could delay the inevitable if he only held off on sleep, petrifying the world in this moment and extending the hours of his peace before the chaos that would surely follow.

But his eyes were already heavy with the promise of slumber, of soft and expensive fabrics against his skin and a plush mattress to sink into. Two years since he had last seen Hannibal or even entered the home he had broken into hours earlier and he slipped into the comfort with such ease it should have alarmed him. Should have sparked some sort of self-preservation instinct or, at the very least, the self-awareness that he was codependent on his former psychiatrist and a serial killer but he was hardly bothered by the notion.

It had been so long since he felt the security, the ease, and relaxation that flooded his system as if there was a hormone reserved for this sort of depraved bond. They had killed together, after all. The brain was a malleable thing and he wondered what sort of impression was left in the wake of their pact; if killing could physiologically change his mind and if killing with another could cross the wires of intimacy.

If he would ever truly be able to disentangle himself from the thing that was Hannibal Lecter, separating the parts of himself from the parts that had been pushed upon him. If they would be forever bound to one another no matter how much time or distance sat between them. If he would ever be able to truly sever the chords of fate.

Or if he would even want to.

~x~

The bathroom was thick with steam, humid and claustrophobic from the too-long shower Hannibal took, luxuriating in the heat and the softness of the lathered soap on his sore muscles. He wasn’t prepared for the exertion that came with breaking down a body this evening, expecting only to take a quick shower and turn to bed when he returned home from the wedding.

Will had a way of disrupting his life, an unpredictable and surprising thing he could never fully predict. He did things that Hannibal couldn’t anticipate, things he wouldn’t do but could appreciate. Watching the younger man unfurl before him like an exquisite flower, one previously unseen or unheard of by man. Delicate petals that hid the true nature of the plant, a carnivorous one that ensnared and consumed pests too distracted to see the predator growing steadily from the earth.

He reveled in it, the chaos ushered in by another. How quickly he had gone from muted fury at the sight of the broken window and wrenched open door of his pantry to delighted, pleased at the sight of Will in a blood-stained smock and the supine body behind him. The smell of the basement was heavy with blood and sweat and the sweet dampness of mud and it was a thrilling aroma, even if the meat was too far gone to use in his traditional means. A disappointment, but one he could look beyond.

It had felt too pleasant to be sitting across from Will in his basement once more to spoil it, instructing him on the proper way to detach organs to keep it clean and precise. He hadn’t stayed for that part when they killed Sutcliffe, the crash from the euphoria of the kill already mounting by then. So his hand was crude, his dissections either too rough or not enough to sever the connective tissue. The meat was no good so it was excellent practice, really; forgiveness for his inexperienced hand found in the fact that it would all be ground together and mixed with his soil. There was no need for precision or care.

Still, it was tiring work even with the vibrating hum of a bone saw in his hands to ease the push through thick muscle and bones and he languished under the showerhead, muscles loosening from the heat. When he finally shut it off, the air was thin and damp even as the overhead fan churned noisily, and he had to wipe the fog from the window to finish his evening ablutions.

He took his time with that as well, delighting in the methodical routine of what many considered a chore. He took care in ensuring his teeth were brushed properly, dragging from the gums with each pass of the toothbrush. The mouthwash was a harsh burn on his tongue and he made certain to floss, the thin string digging into the skin above his knuckle as he slipped it between each tooth.

It was a time for introspection, letting his thoughts wander as the fan hummed and the water sloshed loudly against the glass basin of his sink, spit and toothpaste swirling down the drain. Will had acted impulsively. Reckless, even. The decision to kill at the moment he did was not one Hannibal would have engaged in if the roles were reversed.

But Will was not Hannibal.

They were identically different, two killers who did not kill the same. Will was reactionary, working on an instinct so deeply buried within him Hannibal was uncertain if he even knew what propelled him. A penchant for manipulation that was so ingrained in him he employed it without knowing. Alana had once said she suspected he was on the spectrum and she wasn’t entirely wrong to think that.

He wasn’t, but Will knew, subconsciously or not, that he would be given allowances for his antisocial tendencies if others suspected he was. Obscuring the trademarks sign of a personality disorder behind something more sympathetic, ticks and averted gazes and surliness slipping from his tongue.

He was naturally adept at it, but he would have to learn to reign himself in. To exert control over himself as well as he exerted it over his victims. When he killed the shrike he had done so beautifully, crafted a design that baffled the detectives investigating the case but he had prepared for that. Had allowed himself the time to plan.

Now he was cleaning up afterward, frantically snipping the loose threads from his ill-thought actions and it wasn’t a sustainable way to live.

He was not Hannibal, but he would need to learn to be more like him. Hannibal was control and precision and Will was feral, spring-loaded into action.

He was smart and proficient but that alone would not be enough to keep him aloft from the sea of suspicions. He would need to learn to hone his skill into something more refined. Something less combustible that threatened to impale Hannibal in the shrapnel of the explosion.

There would be time for that, once this obstacle was cleared away. If there was one thing Hannibal excelled at, it was controlling the perception of the crimes he created, shirking from the accusing gaze of law enforcement with amusing ease.

He left the bathroom, keeping the door spread wide so the light from the en suite spilled into the room as he pulled pajamas from his dresser. The weather was beginning to warm but for now, the nights were still wrapped in winter’s chill and he shrugged on a sweater- not unlike the one he had handed to Will before leaving him for the night. He just finished tying the strings of his sleep pants when the door cracked open, Will slipping quietly into the room- dark except for the light of the adjacent room that Will glanced at curiously, eyes narrowed.

“If you give me a few minutes, I can pretend to be asleep and you can try sneaking in again,” Hannibal offered, smirking as Will whipped around at the words, eyes widening. It was hard to hide his amusement when Will scowled, lips pulling into a pout at having been caught. The clothes Hannibal gave him were too big, sleeves from the cashmere sweater draping down to his knuckles and it was an endearing sight. Seeing someone swathed in his clothes, a sort of possessiveness in the familiar fabrics draping over another. “Is this what I am to expect every time you kill?”

His tone was teasing, yet he could already see Will’s cheeks reddening, gaze slanting around the room to look at everything but Hannibal. He was surprised when Will rose his chin and strode past, tossing the neatly made covers aside and sliding beneath them, turning so he was faced away as if in defiance. How audacious of him, breaking into Hannibal’s home in the middle of the night to clean up his mess and then slinking into his bed with the same sense of ownership.

“Make yourself at home,” Hannibal muttered, though the words lacked bite. He was deriving too much amusement for his usual venom at such an intrusion. There were hardly any secrets between them, blurring the lines of typical etiquette.

It would be nice to have Will so close for the few hours of sleep they would have before driving back to his campus. Before time and distance sat between them once more. And it soothed his dignity in a way he couldn’t fully name, something like a contented purr vibrating deep in his chest. Will might have come all this way- crossing state lines and driven hours to the basement he knew would be prepared for the task at hand and help to undo his mistake, but he came to Hannibal’s bed for another reason.

For comfort, perhaps; steadied by the older man who had all the confidence and assurance he couldn’t quite manage for himself just yet. For the security of resting beside someone he trusted against all reason, the same person he had once held a gun to. Or maybe he had simply missed Hannibal and wished to surround himself with him before he would have to return to school.

He finished preparing for bed, turning the light to the bathroom off and gingerly setting the decorative pillows that Will had tossed aside onto the bench at the foot of his bed before sliding underneath the covers.

He laid on his back, silence settling easily between them, punctuated by the soft fluttering breaths as Will sat on the edge of sleep. When he spoke, it was through a voice roughened in exhaustion, muffled from behind the loose fist that curled on the pillow in front of his face. “I’m sorry.”

Hannibal rolled his head to glance at him, eyes adjusting to the darkness to see the curls against pale flesh, eyes half-lidded and blinking back against the pull of sleep. “What for, exactly? Breaking into my home? Inviting yourself into my bedroom? Impulsively killing someone without a plan in place? Dragging me into it?” he asked, the words light despite the accusation sitting heavy in the syllables. A soft reminder of his mistake that would ripple across the surface of his life for some time.

Will huffed out a soft laugh. “I think the answer is...yes?”

He sighed, biting back the admonishments that sat on his tongue. It would do little to voice them; the past could not be changed. Will would not want to change it if he could, he knew. While Hannibal himself was less concerned by the crimes of others- sitting somewhere between amusement at their creations the way one would admire fellow craftsmen or repulsion at their lack of finesse- he typically preferred not to interfere. As if observing an experiment, ever mindful that his alterations could produce insincere results.

Will did not share the desire for observation, the curiosity of what another would do. It wasn’t altruistic, nor was it a sort of vigilantism learned from reading one too many comic books as a child. It was simply a taste for the distasteful. While Hannibal preferred elevating the classless to a higher purpose, an art form, Will preferred the poetic irony of a reckoning.

How very Old Testament of him.

“I’m sure I don’t have to impress on you the importance of thinking your actions through a bit more in the future,” he said instead, receiving a soft, noncommittal hum in answer.

“It was a...bad night,” Will said after a moment, the words a sigh. “I just...hate college and my jobs suck, and my girlfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t sleep with her of all things,” he rambled, a hollow laugh filling the space between him. The admission rolled off his tongue as exhaustion pulled the complaints he would normally keep carefully guarded behind his teeth. His creole accent was slipping into his voice, dragging the words into the smooth and molasses thick twang that was a delicious treat, his normal restraint on his accent too firm and unyielding to let it slip. “And I think I just...missed it and wanted an excuse to do it. And an excuse just...fell into my lap.”

The corner of Hannibal’s lip twitched into a smile, the gesture flickering before settling into one of somber consideration. “No, I can’t imagine you have a lot of time for those sorts of extracurricular activities. You still have a bit to learn, outside of your studies for school.”

Will’s lips stretched into a smile, revealing the white tips of his teeth. “Yeah, I don’t think they offer classes on that,” he mused with a wry chuckle. The smile slipped, and his eyes opened more fully, glossy and shiny in the dark room with his wide-eyed glance. He licked his lips as he said, “It’s been a while since your last sounder, hasn’t it? I was still living in Wolf Trap when the Ripper last made headlines.”

Hannibal hummed, eyes narrowing curiously at Will. “Yes, it has been some time. Jack’s been on edge these last few months, anticipating the inevitable resurface I imagine. He takes the Ripper’s kills as a personal affront these days,” he said, the humor warm in his voice. There was a pleasure in it, tormenting Jack with his inaction as much as he did his action. A looming specter that sat on the periphery of the agent’s mind, a phantom that would never be exorcised. There was no relief to be found even if the Ripper abstained from killing, the dread mounting as he waited for the moment the pendulum would swing back and torn and expertly slaughtered bodies would be contorted into statues made of flesh and bone.

“The Ripper must be losing his touch,” Will taunted, eyes gleaming, the fog of sleep forgotten in his sudden alertness.

Hannibal chuckled softly. “Is there a purpose to this conversation or is your intent merely to insult Baltimore’s most infamous serial killer?”

He sobered, his playful grin faltering. He inhaled a sharp breath before saying, “I...want to help you with it. All of it, this time. Not just the killing but the,” he paused, licking his lips once more so they glistened with saliva. “I want to hunt with you. And arrange them. I want you to show me how to do it. When I killed the Shrike, I just tricked him into letting me in his motel room. No hunting or anything like that. I want to see how _you_ do it. How you get away with it. I want you to teach me.”

Hannibal swallowed a soft sound that was obscene in the quiet that followed Will’s request, his eyes dark and wide and _hungry_ even in the shadows that enveloped them. He did not need a mirror to know that the same hunger was reflected in his own gaze, saliva thick on his tongue at the thought of Will beside him through each step of his kills.

It was something he’d wanted for years since Will first sat opposite him in his basement. Something he hadn’t realized was missing in his life until the prospect presented itself. The idea that there was someone he could share it with, share this beauty and savage poetry with. A dream he had laid to rest when Will first left, a referral for another psychiatrist clutched in his hand. It never did well to dwell on things one could not possess; only madness could be found in such unfulfilled coveting, avarice turning many a man into something crooked and unrecognizable.

He denied himself in indulging such fantasies even after Will returned to his office, knowing he would only leave once more for school. He hadn’t quite forgotten about it, so much as set the thoughts aside. Locked them away in a room of his memory palace he tried not to frequent, occupying his mind with the crimes Jack came to him with, the patients sitting opposite him that he could twist and direct as he waited for something indefinable and nebulous.

But now the door was unlocked, blown from its hinges as it spilled out like water filling the corridor, climbing up the walls.

“That will be a difficult task to manage. You’re in school, and the distance is...great,” he reasoned, trying and failing to think of ways to work around such distance. Any geographical shift in his kills- whether the selection of victim or the displays- would alert the FBI, practically drawing an arrow to them. Likewise, Will spending a few days nearby under the guise of visiting his father would be equally suspicious should they come under the discerning magnifying glass of a hellbent Jack Crawford.

Will frowned, eyes flitting around the room in thought. “The semester ends in ten weeks. I’ll be back home, working with my dad. The Ripper’s waited this long already, what’s a few more months?” he said, a brow raised as if in a challenge, daring Hannibal to say no to his proposal.

“You’re rather presumptuous, making such demands,” he murmured back, though he already knew he would wait those ten weeks- longer, still, so it was less suspicious. He had waited far longer for Will to return to him, and with fewer promises sitting on the horizon of his return. “Do you plan on hijacking any of the Ripper’s kills as well, this time? Doctor Chilton is still unfortunately around, making some more children miserable, I’m sure.”

Will smiled, eyes crinkling with the expression. A sincere one, not the pained grimace that pulled at his face. “He would enjoy that too much. Being immortalized by the _real_ Chesapeake Ripper _and_ finding out he was right about me all along? His last words would be _I told you so_ ,” he joked, sighing as he added, “No, his reputation matters more to him than his life. Another Gideon to bury his career- that would be good revenge.”

Hannibal nodded, twisting so that he laid on his side, facing Will. “Then you have no requests?” he asked, and Will considered the question, chewing his lip in thought before finally shaking his head.

“No, I just want...to be there. For all of it.”

“To observe or participate?”

The edges of his lips quirked into a fleeting smile. “Both,” he answered, and then he yawned, burying his face into the pillow to obscure it. Sleep was sinking into him once more, his brief and quick vigor at the promise of a hunt fading as his exhaustion settled into his bones. His eyes slipped close, and they remained that way, movement fluttering beneath the thin eyelid. His breathing slowed into soft, even exhalations and he was asleep within minutes, the conversation at an abrupt but decisive end.

They would hunt together. Hunt and kill and construct tableaux together; stand side by side in his kitchen as they cooked a meal that would taste different than the countless others they made before because this one would contain an ingredient the others hadn't. One that could not be found in his pantries or in among his living herb wall or even hunted. It was a tantalizing thought, one he turned to often and the knowledge that soon it would be realized was a heady, intoxicating one. Warming his belly more than any of the champagne or wine he had consumed earlier in the evening and his hand twitched at his side with the desire to reach out and touch him. To pull Will close against him and simply hold him; feel the lithe muscles beneath his skin, the soft recently washed curls brushing under his chin.

He might’ve done it too if he didn’t recall the rambled words that had spilled from Will’s lips in defense of his actions. That his girlfriend had broken up with him because he refused to sleep with her and he frowned. There was a point where Will responded adversely to his touch, but he had since learned to relax beneath it. A moment of hesitation, perhaps, but he would eventually slacken and would even seek it out on occasion when his emotions were heightened and he sought for Hannibal to anchor him.

But he was familiar enough with his studies in psychology to know recovery was nonlinear, and that things that had not been an issue could become one without warning.

He doubted Will had continued his therapy since beginning college, pulled in too many directions between his studies and working several jobs to keep his finances afloat.

He sighed, closing his own eyes and keeping his hand firmly at his side. He would relent control to Will on that matter, knowing it would be all the sweeter if he initiated the touches between them instead of simply allowing it. Hannibal's patience often strained uncharacteristically where Will was concerned, but it was rewarded in greater measure. Will always came back to him, returning to his office and his home and even his bed.

He would take whatever Will offered, but only if it was offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is a very happy cannibal right now.
> 
> Next up: Will gets a lift back to campus and Hannibal gets a surprising call from Jack when two cold cases get opened back up.


	4. Remonstrate

**Chapter Three: Remonstrate**

Will awoke first.

It was a startling fact, realization unfurling within him as he slowly blinked his eyes open, Hannibal's expression relaxed in slumber, the harsh contours of his face momentarily softened. Hair- pale blond with some slivers of gray- brushed across his brow, as disheveled as he seemed capable of appearing. It felt strange, somehow voyeuristic despite the innocence of the moment. They had not strayed from their respective positions during their few hours of rest, Will awaking exactly as he had fallen asleep- knees tucked inward, fist loosely curled before him, the sight of his fingers partially obscuring his view of Hannibal's face. 

Yet, it was a rare moment of vulnerability- not for him, but for Hannibal and it struck him all at once the power that came with it. The Chesapeake Ripper lay before him, his breathing deep and slow in sleep and it would be easy to kill him. Muffle his nose and mouth with a pillow, using his knees to pin his chest down, squeezing what little oxygen could be wrung from his lungs as he suffocated on the silk pillowcase. Enclose his fingers around his throat, slash a knife through the softly pulsing flesh above his carotid, staining the sheets and dark navy blankets with blood, dark and hot. 

He didn't want to kill him, and even the brief consideration of it made his chest clench painfully. But he appreciated the opportunity to do so all the same, relishing in the openness that he had gone without for so long. As if he had been famished, whithering away with a hunger for something that could not be found within the noisy halls of his university, in the good-natured if artificial conversation he managed between the small collection of people he might have called friends if such a word didn't feel so clunky on his tongue. He felt _full_ now, content and warm, and he wanted to sidle closer, to use the excuse of sleep for shirking past boundaries to find comfort in the heat of another but he stayed still, unmoving. 

Hannibal was a light sleeper, something he discerned easily enough and he wondered if it was a natural- almost preternatural, it seemed- habit of his or if he had honed it, trained himself to awaken to the slightest change in his environment. A predator that was ever wary of the other predators that sought to dethrone him. And though he wanted to shift forward, bridge the gap between them to find more of that comfort before it was gone and he was to return to school, he didn't want to shatter the moment. A moment of observance of someone so frequently unobserved- too guarded to allow such a thing. 

He knew the second consciousness crept into Hannibal, the line of his brow deepening minutely and slight creases crinkling over the thin eyelid, disturbed by the fluttering movement below. He watched shamelessly as he awoke in increments- quickly, he did not linger in the nebulous half-world as Will tended to, pulled into the soft blurriness of his dreams and the pointed corners of reality, trying to straddle it for as long as he could manage. Within seconds, he was certain Hannibal was not just awake, but aware. Aware of the eyes that dragged from the crown of his silver and blond hair to the slow rise of his shoulders, his breaths quicker, shallower now. 

"It's not often I'm the last to wake," Hannibal mused, voice rough and accent thick from several hours of disuse. His eyes remained close, eyelashes fanning softly across the sharp jut of his cheekbone. 

Will frowned, the quip bringing with it an image of the same bed he laid in now, indented with the form of another and he shoved the thought away. An undeserved possessiveness, his pride smarting at the thought that he was not the only one to have seen such a side of the man. There was a perverse and guilty sense of ownership that came with knowing all the facets that existed within one entity, possessing all of his most heavily protected secrets and the thrill that came with it trembled at the thought that it was a privilege that might have been bestowed upon others. 

He was overthinking it, he knew. That if anyone else did find themselves sleeping beside Hannibal, it was without the knowledge of the shadow looming over him, oblivious to the cruelty that was a dichotomy to the very nature of their presence there. 

The thought smoothed the jagged edges of his mood some, and Will sighed, letting his head sink into the soft pillows. "Morning," he muttered, the word winding around the fingers still held by his face, knuckles brushing over his lips. It felt as if the single word was trapped there, held in his palm and moving no further. 

But it must have because Hannibal tipped the corners of his lips up into a small smile. "Good morning."

~x~

Will slept through most of the drive to his college, as he often did during long car rides- a stubborn habit of his that refused to fade with age. He awoke slowly, blinking at the blur of cars passing beside them, the dizzying and mottled palettes of green from the trees dotting the interstate and the assorted routes Hannibal pulled off to. Music played softly around him, the crisp sound of violins and cellos and flutes splicing through the air, curling around the shell of his ear. The volume was low, a gentle caress of sound that would not wake Will but still chirped through the otherwise quiet of the car.

He moved slowly, wincing as pain flared against the curve of his neck from having been bent in such an uncomfortable position for so long, and he pressed his fingers into the flesh in a half-hearted massage.

“Vivaldi?” he guessed, voice roughened from sleep and he turned in time to catch the small smile that curved on Hannibal’s lips.

“Correct. Have you been studying the classics?”

He shrugged, leaning against the passenger seat. “Studying _with_ them is the more appropriate wording. It’s supposed to help you concentrate and memorize.”

“I’ve read a few articles about it,” Hannibal agreed, head tipping in consideration. “Spatial reasoning, memory retention, and concentration can all be improved, and some studies even suggest it’s capable of lowering blood pressure. Mozart is often touted as the most efficient composer because of his dynamic and invigorating compositions but that’s a bit of a bias.” He paused, glancing at Will as he added, “Just about any stimulus will have the same effect, but classical music isn’t as distracting as more modern music so it’s preferable for studying. Any favorites?”

Will hummed thoughtfully. “I like listening to music from _Carmen_. I found it on a playlist on Youtube and I don’t know. It’s nice,” he said, stretching out as much as the cramped seating would allow. He was dressed in more of Hannibal’s clothes, his own having to be tossed away for added security. The tan trousers were pressed neatly and too long rolled into cuffs over his ankles that only made the sight of his mud-stained boots all the more jarring against the pristine fabric. He wore the same sweater he slept in, the azure color brighter than anything he possessed in his own wardrobe. But it was soft and warm and he had shrugged it over the pin-striped button-down Hannibal gave him without thought, not wanting to part with it on such a cold spring day.

He scrutinized his reflection before they left as if there was someone else glancing back at him and he was trying to discern where the differences between him and the mirror could be found. He certainly felt like someone else in the clothes, identifiable only by the curls and blue eyes, made even more vivid and startling by the complementary color of the sweater.

“A fantastic opera. One of my favorites. Have you thought about seeing it live? It’s popular enough that it’s in regular rotation at most theaters,” Hannibal asked, pulling Will’s attention away from expensive fabric swathing him.

He snorted. “Theaters tend to be filled with people. Might be hard to enjoy if I’m too busy focusing on making as little noise as possible or if I- what do I do with my arms? Is it my armrest or theirs? And I suddenly always forget what to do with my legs, no position ever seems comfortable, you know?”

He had a suspicion Hannibal _didn’t know_ if the smirk tilting unevenly across his face was any indication, but he was too polite to say as much, simply nodding indulgently as he said, “I understand.”

Hannibal probably felt just as at home in the theater as he did his kitchen, commanding the space with enviable ease and charm. The world shifted around him, fell into place as he deigned it while Will felt ill-fitted even in the places supposedly carved out for him. A stranger in his own life, doing his best to sink into the more stagnant parts of him to go unnoticed. He was perfectly content with leaning against a wall and hoping he might camouflage into it, while he suspected Hannibal would situate himself in the center of any room he entered. Conversing with others as if it were the simplest task and not the insurmountable one it often felt to Will.

He could picture him, dressed in one of his hideous patterned suits with a separately patterned undershirt and a floral tie and Will wasn’t the most fashionable person by any means but he thought there was a rule against that sort of thing. That patterns were meant to be used sparingly and with solid colors only. Yet like most rules, that didn’t seem to apply to Hannibal and he could dress as flauntingly clashing as he wished and still look polished, regal in a way that seemed antiquated.

And he would stand in the lobby of the theater, looking not at all out of place against the ornate detailing of the crown molding and chair rail. The gilded gold decorations and the sconces from an era long past, monstrous chandeliers with glistening crystal beads refracting the light like a kaleidoscope and he would see people he knew, of course. He was a frequent attendee at those sorts of events and was well known and well-liked- perhaps he even knew the performers by now, lips brushing against the knuckles of a swooning actress, blushing beneath his praise of how gracefully she worked the stage.

His mood soured, and he chewed his lip. No, Hannibal certainly _didn’t_ understand his dislike of the theater.

Besides, he was afraid seeing the production might shatter the illusion of it that existed within his head. The scenes that unfurled in his mind when he laid in bed, a textbook splayed open across his chest and he allowed his eyes to close in the brief respite of his studies. His imagination was always a powerful thing, enough to sweep him away in the sharp contrast and saturated colors of his thoughts and he could summon a play of his creation for the songs.

His French wasn’t as polished as it could be, and he was more familiar with the Creole dialect making it hard to understand the lilted pronunciations. But he did understand it after enough careful listening and with the assistance of Google when the opera became too bombastic and distorted to decipher.

He knew it was a love story, two men vying for the attention of a beautiful and powerful woman. One who did not so easily bend to the whim of either of them and was punished for it. How swiftly love could turn to hate when one was spurned.

Though, he supposed that it wasn’t ever really love if that were the case. It was a relatively unfamiliar notion to him, but he imagined love as something kind, a devotion that couldn’t be tainted and if it was corrupted it was because it wasn’t love in the first place. Conditional love was a facsimile, a mockery of what he thought it was to really be in love. To value someone and their happiness more than your own, adoring them as if they were the only things that mattered in life. That the entire world could combust and crumble, give way to anarchy and destruction and none of it would matter so long as it didn’t take your beloved in the collapsing maw of its hunger.

He understood love in a way, of course.

He loved his dogs and his chest would always warm at the sight of them, smiling with ease that otherwise evaded him when they rushed out to greet him. And he loved his family- the remembrance of those no longer with him and his dad.

But he knew it was not the same as romantic love- had no real reference for it even because his mother had died when he was too young to see the sort of looks her and his father might have shared. The smiles and vulnerability reserved only for each other and the thought made his mood sour further. That he might never have such things because he was horrendous at something that should be so natural.

His most successful relationship was with _Matthew Brown_ and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the realization.

“What’s your favorite opera?” he asked, more to distract himself from his morose thoughts than for genuine interest.

Hannibal considered the question for a moment. “ _Tristan and Isolde_ if I had to choose. Have you heard any of that in your Youtube playlist?” he asked bemusedly, glancing at Will briefly before fixing his gaze once more on the road ahead.

Will huffed out a laugh. “No, I don’t think I have. I’ll have to add it.” He reached between them, grabbing hold of the thermos of water Hannibal brought for the long drive and twisted the cap. It was the expensive sort, insulated so well that ice cubes clanged noisily against the steel interior despite how they'd been traveling and he took a slow sip, easing the dry soreness of his mouth that came from sleeping with it hanging open. It was refreshing, even if the water tasted too metallic, too sharp for his liking, and he set the bottle in his lap, holding the cap in his hand.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Hannibal began, his words slow and deliberate as he spoke, glancing at Will and holding his gaze for as long as he could safely manage before needing to refocus on the road. “And I know you won’t like it, so I’m going to apologize in advance.”

Will frowned, bringing the bottle to his lips once more- busying himself with the action as dread filled his belly in equal measure with the water. Hannibal understood the distraction for what it was and asked, “Am I correct in assuming you’ve stopped therapy?”

He winced guiltily, a bead of water trailing down his chin as he hastily pulled the thermos away. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “I just...between work and school I don’t have the time,” he answered in a shrug, quick to add, “but it’s fine. I’m fine, I mean. My new primary keeps my prescriptions up to date and I see her whenever I go back home to make sure it’s still a good routine. Therapy itself is just-” he waved a hand through the air, trying to find a word that would put the matter to rest without insulting the man who made a career off the very thing he despised. “Superfluous?” he said, though his voice tilted upward in a sharp inflection that made him seem doubtful of his own assessment.

“It might seem superfluous, but I wouldn’t be so quick to discount it. Do you truly feel as if there’s nothing more you can gain from going?” he asked, and Will scoffed, spine stiffening at the conversation.

“Yep,” he answered, popping the _‘p’_ sound so that it punctuated the noises surrounding them, cutting through the shrill sounds of violins and the bellowing timber of cellos. He had enough therapy for a lifetime, and his eighteenth birthday had been a celebration of his ability to make choices on the matter. One he employed readily, making the small concession of at least continuing for a few months when his dad expressed his disapproval at the idea.

His dislike of therapy had- miraculously- only grown when he left Hannibal’s office for the last time as a patient. His new diagnosis- a new and shiny set of neuroses to replace his previous labels- had brought with it a course of treatment he _loathed_. It seemed there was no course of treatment that didn’t involve sinking into his memories, forced to relive them while reminded he was no longer living them and it had left him feeling raw and stripped and more exposed than he ever wanted to.

He wanted to simply forget it, to receive instructions on how to shut off his brain when the thoughts became too intrusive, and instead, he was told that that was an impossibility. It was called _dissociating_ and was a coping mechanism that was not sustainable, would only lead to further instability and harm, acting recklessly in an attempt to further pull himself away from the things threatening to consume him.

And so each Thursday, at seven in the evening, he was sat on a couch with his eyes closed and forced to confront it. Recalling the torment with such vivid clarity that he would sometimes find himself in the throes of a panic attack, unaware that he had begun to whimper and cry and struggle to breathe until he was already being talked down from the precipice of his fear, reminded in placating tones that he was _safe_ and he would be torn between humiliation and relief. A weekly drag into his trauma that made him exhausted but unable to sleep without the monsters that now loomed ever nearer in his mind.

But it had _worked_. Eventually, there came a Thursday where he sat back and closed his eyes and described something that once might have reduced him to a trembling and pathetic thing with almost clinical detachment. Not so much resignation as it was acceptance and moving forward and he hated that achieving it had required cutting himself open so often, vulnerable and fragile like a porcelain doll with a chip down the center of its head where a careless child had dropped it. Not quite shattered, but neither whole.

He could live that way, he supposed. Incomplete was better than nothing.

He brought the thermos to his lips, taking a gulp he immediately regretted when Hannibal prodded, “So, your sexual health then is _fine_ as well?”

He coughed, choking on the mouthful of too-sharp water, sputtering in his surprise at the blunt question. It streamed down his chin, mingling with his spit, and droplets painted the dashboard before him when he wasn’t quick enough to shield his mouth.

His voice was strained, words strangled between weak coughs as he said, “that’s _personal_.” It lacked the venom he wanted, and he frowned as he tried to clear his throat of any trapped water, twisting the cap back on the thermos and tossing it at his feet as if it were solely to blame for his discomfort.

Hannibal seemed unfazed, rolling a shoulder in a slow shrug. “I did say you wouldn’t like it,” was all he offered.

Will narrowed his eyes, snorting inelegantly. “That was an inadequate warning.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal agreed, though his eyes gleamed with humor at Will’s displeasure and he was reminded once more that, despite the odd and contradictory tenderness he regarded him with, he was still a sadist. “Last night you mentioned something about a romantic pursuit coming to an end because you didn’t want to make things physical. I was just concerned that you’re not taking care of your-”

“Shut up,” Will hissed before he could stop himself, a feverish heat reddening his cheeks and turning his ears pink. _Nope._ Absolutely _not_ was he about to discuss this with _Hannibal Lecter_ of all people. No one if he could manage it, but certainly not the man sitting beside him, not even attempting to hide his slight but _there_ grin at Will's expense. “I don’t know why I said that but it...it’s not- it was a misunderstanding is all,” he lied, stumbling over his words and feeling his flush deepen.

He hardly recalled the moment, lulled into the promise of sleep, and eased into by the comforting smell of Hannibal’s cologne that clung to the bed linens, a mattress more plush and comfortable than the thin and narrow one of his dorm. A moment that was pushed to the wayside and forgotten entirely when he salivated at the first few images that trickled into his brain at the thought of hunting and killing beside Hannibal once more.

He fell asleep that way, finding comfort in the blood-soaked dreams, corpses fashioned into something stunning, death made into a canvas of delicate brushstrokes. His anger and embarrassment from earlier in the evening were displaced with anticipation for the privilege of witnessing the Chesapeake Ripper in all his notoriety. A performance reserved only for him and the victims that would not live long enough to speak of it. But _he_ would live, was granted access to slip behind the veil of the manufactured reality that was Hannibal Lecter- the socialite, and respected doctor- to see what lurked beneath the guise. Something indefinable, not quite a psychopath because he was capable of something like love, he surmised. Had once consumed the brain of someone he had to have loved in his way, a readiness to join them in death if the meat in his stomach so deigned it, infecting and poisoning him for his adoration.

The knowledge that he was one of the few- perhaps only- to know him in such a way was a heady one. A warm and fluttering sensation of being _special_ and regarded in a way that no other was, presented with a rare gift of _knowing_ something so intimate about another _._

Callie’s cruel words seemed so small then, the intimacy he refused to offer her so insignificant to the intimacy that was promised to him now. The intimacy that came from killing together and he had managed to forget it entirely until Hannibal saw fit to crudely mention it, disrupting the stillness in his head.

“If you insist,” Hannibal said, with all the air of someone who did not believe Will in the slightest. “As both a medical doctor and a psychiatrist, I’m just aware of the long-term physiological effects of childhood trauma and was concerned, is all. There are techniques to move beyond it, of course, but since that is not the case I suppose I will _shut up_.”

“ _Please_ do,” Will mumbled, turning his attention to the blurring motion of cars beside them, lips locked tightly in a grimace. He considered if the speed of the car was too great for him to jump from it, a fleeting but amusing image of him hurtling from the side of the Bentley to Hannibal’s surprise flitting across his mind. But Hannibal was feeling charitable today, his good humor at seeing Will after so long extending to his mood, and he did not press the subject further, the rest of the ride passing in companionable silence save for the music trilling around them.

~x~

It was with an unusual degree of disdain that Hannibal answered the phone, the solemn notes of Handel’s _Largo_ coming to a clipped and too abrupt end as the Bluetooth connecting his phone to the car amputated the melody. It was an odd time for such a call from Jack- nearly six in the afternoon, outside of his standard office hours and it was with a resigned sigh that he realized he would not be home as soon as he had anticipated. The passenger seat beside him was empty once more- had been for some time since he dropped Will off hours earlier, and the brusque voice that filled the space was a jarring change from the soft notes of his music or Will’s muted and sharp words.

“ _Doctor Lecter, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,”_ Jack began, a typical greeting that preceded the summons to a crime scene, the promise that Hannibal would be dedicating the rest of his evening in the violence and designs of another.

He simply hoped this one would be interesting, his patience waning from the few hours of sleep he managed before such a long drive.

“Not at all, Jack. What can I do for you?”

“ _I need you down here. In Quantico,”_ he said, a disappointing request. Quantico meant there was no crime scene, no turn apart bodies in blood-soaked earth. No contorted masterpieces of brutality to observe and Hannibal inhaled slowly, preparing for the droller aspects of his consultation work. _“We have a break in a few cold cases. It’s pretty...”_ Jack hesitated, sighing as he searched for the right word. _“It’s something. I’ll wait until you get here to go over it all in detail. I’ve called in a few people for consultation on this one.”_

Hannibal inclined his chin, curiosity stirring within him. “Several consultations can often lead to dissenting opinions. Are you sure it’s wise to introduce so many minds into what already sounds like a muddled case?” he asked, careful to keep his tone lofty, free of condescension or accusations. Jack was mercurial, a short temper that could be easily challenged by a perceived slight and he was always wary of how he spoke to him. There had never been such a misinterpretation between them, Hannibal assuming the role of a voice in the back of his head- not too assertive, not too dominant.

He spoke in suggestions and uncertainty; Jack more than most needed a delicate touch.

“ _It’s precisely the dissenting opinions I need, actually. Several biases are sometimes more fair than one when there’s a young life relying on it. Or, that was Doctor Bloom’s belief, at least,”_ he conceded, his words gruffly mumbled into the speaker. So he did not agree then with Alana and was seeking Hannibal out to confirm his stance as the correct one. The thought made him smile, bemused. Jack was a bullheaded man who did not allow many to impede him but Alana was rather adept at it. Just as stubborn when the need arose and it was a rare and implosive opportunity to be pulled between two opposite yet equally powerful forces.

“Ah. In that case, I respect her decision and look forward to seeing you and the several other consults on the matter,” he said, and the conversation came to a quick end after that, his route changing suddenly now that he was headed towards the base of the BSU instead of home, the haunting sound of the violin once more settling around him. Enveloping him in the trill of the strings, like a shriek or a cry into the night and he hummed along quietly.

~x~

Hannibal was the last of the consults to arrive, stepping into Jack’s office as three sets of eyes turned at his intrusion. Jack rose from his desk, striding across the room to greet him. “Doctor Lecter, thank you for joining us,” he said, extending a hand out to where Alana sat, arms crossed defiantly over her chest. The source of her frustration sitting beside her, the familiar and smug countenance of Frederick Chilton tipping his mouth in an uneven grin.

“Hannibal, fancy meeting you here,” he mused coyly.

“A pleasant surprise, Frederick,” he responded, smiling politely. “I was under the impression your consultation work with the FBI had come to an end some time ago. I’m delighted to see you’ve returned to it.” Chilton’s grin faltered, and he cleared his throat of the words and the reminder of why his consultation career had come to a bitter, embarrassing end.

“Well, this sort of case is well within my wheelhouse. The moment I read the article by Freddie Lounds I knew my expertise would be appreciated and gave Jack a call,” he said. Hannibal’s gaze slanted to Alana, her eyes creasing as she pinched them closed in annoyance as if doing so might make the man disappear. A child trying to make the monster blend back into the shadows and he covered his amusement with confusion.

“An article? Is this a high-profile case?” he asked, shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair before sitting down before Jack. An audience of doctors to his performance and the man pinched his lips, drummed his fingers over the folder of a case file set before him. It did not bear the seal of the FBI, only the embedding marks of _CLASSIFIED_ crimped into the soft and worn cover of the folder.

“Lounds worked quick. And unethically, I might add. Pretended to be a nurse to get into the girl’s hospital room and interview her. The article was up before I even pulled into the parking lot for _my_ interview,” he said, huffing out a humorless laugh and shaking his head. He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck before adding, “you haven’t read it yet?

Hannibal frowned, crossing his legs and draping his wrists on the arms of the chair. “My day has been filled with errands and traveling, I’m afraid. Little time for reading sensational tabloids. Lounds’s reporting has always been a bit too tasteless for my liking,” he remarked, catching the slight stiffening of Chilton’s spine from the corner of his gaze. Her writing was flowery, the prose engaging if a bit hackneyed. Certainly not the proper voice of a self-claimed reporter whose duty was to present the facts, not obscure them behind enough language that teetered the line of libel with all the crafted ease of someone who’s been sued before.

But she was perceptive in a way he appreciated, her articles on his most insidious identity of great interest. She had an intuition, an investigator's eye that took a backseat to a too-big mouth and kept her at a safe enough distance from his crime scenes to be more amusing than a threat.

Jack rose his brows, nodding his agreement. He was certainly not a fan of _Tattlecrime._ “Early this morning, just after midnight, a junior from Winona State University in Minnesota was admitted to a local hospital in hysterics. She was incoherent, appeared to be suffering from a psychotic break until they were able to calm her down with medication.” He pulled open one of the files placed before him, turning it around so it was facing Hannibal and the other doctors and slid it across his desk.

All three leaned forward, and Hannibal tilted his head to the side at the familiar face looking up at him from the student identification photo. Long brown hair hanging flatly from the crown of her head, framing the slim and pale face. A tapered, small chin of a heart-shaped face, dark blue eyes glancing back at him, the ring lighting creating a halo around the pupil. Abigail Hobbs, the surviving daughter of the Minnesota Shrike, compressed onto the glossy surface and folded between either side of the FBI’s case file.

_A few cold cases_ Jack had said on the phone and Hannibal leaned back in his chair, neither bored nor intrigued or annoyed as he thought he would be but acutely aware, his senses heightened. The smell of the room- leather and paper and the faint aroma of Jack’s aftershave- was an overwhelming thing, crowding his other senses. His throat tightened under an unseen noose slowly pulling taut against his flesh as realization set into him.

“When she appeared lucid, local authorities visited her and she confessed to having helped her father find and get in touch with several young women. All of whom were reported missing and investigated by us,” he said, the words pulled like teeth from his jaws. Spat like bitter poison at the taste of the killer who eluded the FBI, disappearing twice. Once to hide from the hounds getting too close to his scent.

He disappeared again because one hound did find him, sharp teeth puncturing flesh and tearing meat from the bone.

Or, rather, an eagle found him.

“The Minnesota Shrike,” Hannibal finished, his eyes sliding along the desk. The thick file folder, bloated with reports and evidence analytics that lead nowhere, the FBI seal wide on the cover. He lingered on the sight of it before glancing at the third file. Slim from a crime with no traceable evidence. A singular crime that might have horrified and shocked the small college town in Indiana but was an outlier, a thankful singularity to the population.

A file that had been tossed into the back of a filing cabinet after a time with no leads only to be pulled out once more with renewed interest. The victim was no longer just a forgotten tourist, a blue-collar worker seemingly caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, hunted for sport in a depraved game he had unfortunately been the target of. Now he was a killer, and the profile shifted- a killer hunted by another killer in a dangerous game he had set in motion the first time he snuck into a young girl’s bedroom to snatch her away like a ghoul.

The file sat before him, dangerous and combustible. A radioactive element with a too-long halflife and Hannibal’s lips pinched together tightly. Grimly.

Jack nodded, the imperceptible change in Hannibal’s demeanor unnoticed to the friends and colleagues who did not know the man behind the facade; the expression hidden behind a well-trained mask and he continued, “Yes, the Minnesota Shrike. We’re still building a profile on her-” he paused, tapping his finger aggressively against Abigail’s photo, between her blue eyes, the jab like the bullet of a gun, “and part of why you’re all here is to examine her exact role in the abductions.”

“You mean, whether or not she was an accomplice or a victim?” Hannibal asked, knowing already on which end of the argument Jack and Alana sat, a tug-of-war with the fraying rope of freedom for the girl made twisted and ill with guilt at her role in the deaths of so many like her. Distorted reflections of the same version of a girl glancing up accusingly from paper flyers with the words _MISSING_ emblazoned in thick black font.

“She was groomed by her father, Jack,” Alana finally spoke, her words hard and lips twisted as if it was the only thing keeping her from saying too much. A physical barrier to her disagreements. She had a fondness for these sorts; these broken children. _Misunderstood and misdiagnosed._ “I don’t need a ten-session case study to tell you that.”

“Well, I want one anyway,” he said, sighing as he relented the subject and waved a hand through the air. “From all of you, but that can wait. Because Abigail Hobbs’s role in her father’s crimes is only half the reason you’re here. The other half is because of _this_.”

And now it was pulled forward, the blank and unassuming file. Flipped open like the pull of a switch from a grenade, the promise of a deafening explosion thick in the air, the smell of gunpowder and the heated, burning spark of its ignition clear enough that he could imagine it singing the hairs of his nose. Burns creeping down the inflamed tissues of his windpipe and crippling his lungs.

It was the first time he had seen Will’s crime; Lounds was good but not good enough to get away with something so vulgar and disrespectful to the surviving family as to publish a photo of the victim. Though she tried her best to compensate, her command of words and adjectives painting a startlingly concise picture of the one that now sat before him, though he imagined no wordsmith could capture the beauty of it. The stolen head of a buck with an impressive set of antlers, reaching outward like fingers trying to pluck the sun itself from the sky. The bloodied body draped over the crown of ivory as though it were a coronation wreath, a ceremony of ascension.

The crowning moment of a becoming that would soon be under the scrutiny of microscopes and profilers, evidence analyzed in a new light.

“ _This_ is Abigail’s father. Our Shrike was murdered two years ago in a crime that baffled the local authorities.” Jack leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together and resting them over his belly. “This wasn’t a case of serendipity or some psychopath experimenting on a tourist. Whoever killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs knew what he was, and he tailored the crime scene around it.”

“That sounds serial,” Alana said, tension unspooling from her shoulders as she fell from the role of a protective psychiatrist to a profiler. “More the profile of a vigilante or an injustice collector. It’s likely Hobbs wasn’t their first.”

“Or their last,” Chilton intoned ominously, his voice a flourishing and dramatic thing that prickled at Hannibal’s nerves more ardently than usual.

His gaze fell back to the photo still place before him, the girl looking up at him with demure eyes. She looked like the does her father once hunted beside her, the ones he taught her to gut, and the line blurred between the literal and the metaphorical. Doe-eyed girls and trembling fawn shifting beneath the blade of a hunting knife that would feel warm and certain in her palm.

She was a hunting partner, the taste of meat souring in her stomach, and guilt festering in her brain. Guilt that turned into diseases, haunting her with her misdeeds and the ghosts of girls who looked like her, sacrificed on the altar for protection. Guilt that was clawing at her, and he wondered if she felt the girls trying to surface, nails dragging down her throat as they tried to climb back up from her belly and spill from her mouth in hastily made confessions.

Confessions that had effectively pulled Will and Hannibal into a vortex, and he allowed himself to envision her with ruby beads of blood like a necklace over her slashed throat. Indulging in the thought of arterial spray spurting in an arch from the torn division of her skin, cutting her throat so deeply that all the secrets would be cut off with it. Silencing her, turned into a sacrifice in her own right and it was with bitterness that he realized it was too late.

Too late to undo the damage done by a foolish girl who was content to know of girls who looked like her strangled of their breath but still crumpled beneath the weight of the ghosts half-made by her hand.

He considered his own words to Will, prophetic in this new light.

The storm will always pass, even if it flooded streets and made houses crumble with the pressure. It would pass.

Abigail Hobbs was simply a storm on the horizon, and he would ensure that she too would pass.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the meat of the story begins! This chapter took a long time to write because I just wanted to write smut. So instead of working on this, I wrote shameless, self-indulgent Hannigram smut like a responsible adult :) No, I do not take criticism, thank you. 
> 
> Here’s a sneak peek to Hannibal’s conversation with Abigail: “Listen, my on-again-off-again boyfriend of four years finally agreed to go on a murder date, do not blow this for me, okay?”
> 
> Next Up: Hannibal interviews Abigail, and Jack has some theories about Hobbs’s murder. Will is stressed, but that’s a given.


	5. Vertigo

**Chapter Four: Vertigo**

Abigail Hobbs was moved to a hospital closer to Quantico, transferred for ease of the investigation that would follow her ill-wrought confession. The walls were painted a sea-foam green, dingy with scuff marks where wheelchairs and gurneys had clacked carelessly down the corridor. There was a dent in the plaster, fissures stretching outward from where a patient had attempted to punch through, painted flakes peeling away to reveal white beneath.

There was the overwhelming smell of disinfectant, a sterile nothingness that accompanied hospitals. Industrial strength cleaners devoid of added scents to cover up the harsh burn of ammonia and Hannibal crinkled his nose as he strode through the hallway, slowing as he came upon the door with a police officer sitting opposite it, lips pulled into a smile as he bid him hello. He raised his hand, rapping his knuckles against the door frame in warning before stepping through.

“Hello, Abigail,” he said, smiling warmly as the girl glanced up at him from where she sat on the bed, hunched over her crossed legs and nervously chewing her fingernails. She whipped around at the sound of his voice, pulling her hand away from her mouth and dropping it in her lap. “I’m Doctor Hannibal Lecter. I work with the FBI.”

Blue eyes narrowed at him, frowning softly. “I already spoke to doctors from the FBI,” she said, bitterness lacing the words.

“Yes, I'm aware. Agent Crawford wanted multiple doctors to form multiple opinions. For your benefit,” he mused as he moved further into the room, coming to stand at the side of the bed and kitting his hands together. She seemed to understand his intent, and relaxed her posture, allowing her brash attitude to unwind from her. When she looked up at him, it was with wide, innocent eyes beneath batting lashes and a dutifully trained look of remorse.

He smiled, amused by the performance. Alana had mentioned a tendency to manipulate, a transaction to the way she spoke. Information for information. He settled himself into the visitor’s chair, crossing his legs neatly. “Would you like to tell me about the episode you had that led to your hospitalization?”

Her lips twitched, resisting the pull into a scowl and she glanced away. A hand rose, trembling even as she tried to still it and it was simultaneously sincere and manufactured. A lingering fear of the ghosts haunting her- the girls trying to crawl free from her belly- and trying to keep in character. Trying to remain the traumatized and innocent girl who couldn’t be blamed for her role in the crimes. “I just...don’t sleep well. Nightmares. Sometimes they...bleed into reality and I forget I’m not asleep,” she answered, voice small in the room.

He inclined his chin, head tilting to the side. “And what nightmares bled into reality this time?”

She turned away from him, long hair shifting over her shoulder to conceal her profile. Her fingers plucked at a loose thread in the thin, standard-issue blanket. Tugging it so harshly it bunched together. She inhaled slowly, a deep and shuddering breath, voice warbling over tears as she said, “That it was my turn. There were no more girls left, so it was my turn.”

She turned back, eyes wet and glistening beneath the halogen lighting, the artificial glow making her skin sallow, gray and washed out. Like a corpse, resembling the girls killed in her place as they once resembled her. “He always told me I would be next if I didn’t help him find another one.”

It was a lie.

She looked away when she spoke the truth, averted her gaze to ease the flow of all the painful things burning in her chest. Unable to see the reactions, the disgust or pity or judgment that would crash against her like a wave.

A temptation she could not resist when speaking in lies or half-truths, eager to see if they were believed. See if her manipulations pulled the desired response. If it worked.

Hannibal frowned indulgently, nodding his head as if to say _‘Who could blame you?’_

He leaned back in the chair, smoothing a hand over the crease in his slacks. “Your father was murdered. Brutally, even. How did his death make you feel?” he asked, curious to see whether she would answer with her gaze steadfastly holding his own or avert it once more to the grated window, the beams of sunlight slipping through the holes in the metal sheath.

She had not expected the question, mouth parting and eyes flickering across the room, uncertain of where to settle. Her skin twitched, muscles trembling with a myriad of emotions, all conflicting and all jumbled. Too many things at once, and she was unsure of which was the _right_ one. Which answer was the one the FBI wanted to hear, the one that would absolve her of her crimes, paint her further as the victim she half-was, the victim she scrambled to be out of desperation.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and her lips quivered. “I don’t...” she began, unable to say further, glancing at Hannibal with almost pleading eyes, begging for him to relieve her of the struggle. To tell her what to say.

“It’s alright if a part of you mourned him while also feeling alleviated that it would never be your turn,” he supplied, his tone sympathetic and eyes kind.

Her shoulders slumped, her relief palpable and her lips pulling into a grimacing smile, nodding quickly. “I was happy knowing it would end,” she said, whispering softly as she glanced away. She cleared her throat, pushed her hair back behind her ear. “I um...I heard the FBI is reopening the case. Why? I mean...what could they find that they didn’t find before?”

“The profile is different now,” he said simply, watching her carefully as she finally turned to look at him once more. “We have reason to believe the person who killed your father knew that he was the Shrike and was exacting justice by killing him.”

It had the desired effect, eyes widening with realization, mouth slinging open. Her chest rose and fell with sharp gasps, color draining from her face. “Is he...is he going to want to kill me? Because I...because I helped?” Her lips trembled as she glanced to him, seeking for him to abate the sudden fear that sprung within her, muddied with the regret of having lost herself in her madness. Regretting the confession that was pulled before lucidity resettled into her mind.

_Good._

He frowned, lips pinching firmly together. “It is likely he’ll want to. He may consider your lack of innocence a betrayal to him sparing you,” he lied, watching as horror sunk into the creases of her face, formed by a furrowing brow and twisted lips. She trembled, shoulders shaking and Hannibal took the opportunity to rise, crossing the distance between them and perching himself stiffly on the side of the bed.

He laid a hand over her own where it was twisting into the blanket, slowly unraveling it by the loose thread. He lowered his head as he spoke quietly, assuredly. “I promise you, Abigail. I won’t let anyone condemn you for the crimes of your father- not the FBI or his killer.”

She lurched forward, winding her arms around Hannibal and resting her cheek against his shoulder, shaking in the embrace. Hannibal shushing her softly as he returned the gesture, one hand cradling the crown of her head, the other resting on the center of her back.

“It will be alright,” he hummed assuredly, her breath hitching in sobs she tried to hold back, tried to pinch within her chest. “You can trust me.”

~x~

“We finished the analysis of Hobbs’s autopsy report,” Beverly Katz called as Hannibal and Jack entered the examination room, the lights a bright and artificial glow, bouncing off the clean metallic surfaces. She rose a file in her hand, flapping it through the air as she said, “we can try for an exhumation, but I’m not sure it will be worthwhile. There was no usable forensic evidence, and there certainly won’t be any now. Just the profile we can build based on the kill.”

Jack reached for the file, flipping through it with an indiscernible expression on his face, the grim line of his mouth pulling deep valleys across his face. He skimmed the report, slapping it closed and twisting it in his hands as he turned back to the team Hannibal had come to know well through his consultation work, regular faces around his dinner table. What a delight it was, standing in this very room and discussing his pigs with the same people who hummed indulgently over the taste of their death hours later. The evidence they so longed for worked between their teeth, warm and digested in their bellies.

Jack sighed, running a hand over his face. “And what profile is that?”

“Based on the reports from the investigation, Hobbs was in his motel room when he was abducted,” Zeller began, twirling a pen in his hands. “The security was pretty nonexistent- outdoor entrance into the rooms, no security cameras, a room far away from the front desk, and from other occupied rooms.”

“A security measure of his own, used to the advantage of the killer,” Hannibal intoned, nodding his head slowly. “His use of lax surveillance to commit his crimes benefited his own murderer.”

Zeller extended a finger, mouth tugging into a crooked grin as he continued, “here’s the kind of weird thing. I say abduction, but there were none of your hallmark signs of abduction. No signs of a struggle, no busted locks or windows. The police aren’t even sure if he was abducted from the motel room, it’s just the last place they can pin him. Aside from the dumpsite, no actual crime scene has been found.”

“Two years later, probably no crime scene left to investigate,” Jack muttered dryly, approaching the steel table in the center of the room. There were no bodies lying supine on its surface; no decaying or mutilated corpses set for dissection and examination, disturbing the sleep of the dead with scalpels and cotton swabs on disintegrating tissue. Instead, photos were laid out, glossy and vivid and Hannibal took Jack’s interest as the opportunity to move forward himself, examining the photos of Hobbs’s corpse.

Yellow evidence tags were a sparse and distracting clutter in the images, garish against the lovely and new angles of the kill. Antlers pierced through flesh, thin rivulets of blood slipping down the curve of a chest. Organs were exposed, soft and wet, and half-masticated from the scavengers who found the man like a sacrifice to a cruel god and picked at the offerings. He could see from the photos how crude the cut was, the gaping space of his abdomen marked by an uneven and unpracticed hand.

His eyes dragged down the arranged photographs, falling on the original taken during the autopsy. Cold and graying by then, the no doubt harsh lighting of the room only aiding in the sallowness, the cast of death a desaturated and unflattering thing now. Gone were the warm hues of the sun as it spread across Hobbs’s flesh, illuminating the red of his blood and the white of the antlers, the flesh glistening in a sheen of sweat. The stiff and flat positioning of the body on the table was so unlike the delicate draping over the cradle of the stag’s head.

There was bruising around the neck- not several slim marks like fingers, Will was smarter than that. A ruler was placed beside each mark, measuring and committing the scale of violence within the little black slashes that crawled up the metal sheet. Measuring the final moments of torture and anguish within the safe confines of the metric system as if such a thing could be so acutely broken down. Screams and cries and agony turned to millimeters and centimeters, contained in the technical jargon; words like _ligature_ and _exsanguination_ summarizing the final moments of life as if they were nothing more than a case study. A clinical trial to be perused and slid back on a shelf.

How hypocritical, he thought. Curious how his art was deemed so wicked but their detached examination of a life fitting on seven pages of letter paper in eight-point font and aggressive margins was considered a necessary facet of death. An unnatural end to something natural and undeniably beautiful.

“Whoever did it was good,” Beverly stated, joining them by the table. “There was no evidence that could be processed in forensics. No prints, no treads from a car or shoes. No hair or clothes fibers. Nada,” she said, emphasizing her point with a popping enunciation, raising a hand and curling the thumb and index finger to meet in a circle. “So, the only thing we could really build on was the evidence from the methodology and how the UNSUB interacted with the body.”

She leaned forward, pointing a finger to the autopsy photos, tracing across the bruising around the neck, the cuts digging into the wrists and ankles. “The original pathologist who did the autopsy surmised the strangulation was done from behind with a forearm, but it wasn’t the cause of death.”

“That came much, much later for our poor Shrike,” Price muttered, tugging his mouth in a grimace. “He was tortured to death. Died of cardiac arrest brought on by the stress of being flayed open alive but exsanguination wasn’t far off by then. The strangulation was probably just a way to incapacitate him long enough to gain the upper hand because Hobbs was bigger. Same with the ligature marks, the UNSUB needed him bound to do his thing.”

“Based on the angle of the bruising and several other factors, we put an estimated height of anywhere from five-five to five-ten. Weight’s harder to place without any environmental evidence but you figure he has to be sturdy enough to raise a six-foot, one hundred and sixty-pound man up and over some antlers so no less than one-thirty, one-forty I’d say, though nothing is impossible,” Beverly explained. Hannibal reached forward, busying himself with shifting the images neatly in place so they were aligned properly, corners meeting corners. His jaw was clenching and he forced the muscles to loosen, forced the tension to shift from his form as he listened to the rest of the profile.

“He did struggle, it wasn’t a clean drop. And it couldn’t have been easy, Hobbs’s was alive through all of it,” Zeller continued, interjecting into the conversation from where he sat at a desk, leaning back in his chair. “The impaling on the antlers, the cutting off of his stomach.” He pulled his face into a frown, revulsion creasing his brows and forming parentheses around his mouth.

Jack huffed out a breath of air, folding his hands behind his back and striding slowly around the table, his eyes shifting around the images. “He has experience then. Understands forensics enough to know what to hide. He has to have other kills.”

Price hummed, tilting his head side to side. “Yes and no? His incision marks are amateurish at best. Not hesitant so much as inexperienced. He kept starting and stopping, applying inconsistent pressure. Any experience he did have was probably pretty limited.” He paused, rose his brows as he added, “But two years is a long time to go without getting caught. Chances are if he’s still active, he’s improved a lot, so the signatures are what will matter most in finding relevant kills.”

It was a relief that there would be no other kills to find, a trail that would run cold. Hannibal clutched at that relief, holding it firmly in his hands. It would be easier to control the sway of the investigation if there were fewer crimes to connect- and the impulsive kill of the other night was so drastically different it wouldn’t be a concern.

Unless Will came under suspicion.

“So, young. A student maybe? Forensics or criminology? Ball State does have a program, undergrad and graduate, we should look at the list of registered students, going back six years,” Hannibal suggested, knowing the list would be considerable and daunting, bogged down further in the sluggish way all cold cases were, the urgency evaporating into a mist. It would buy him precious weeks between the bureaucratic gears churning for subpoenas and arranging interviews and culling an extensive list with little to work with. A list that would lead them astray, starting the process anew when their efforts yielded nothing.

Beverly hummed, chin inclined. “I’m not sure someone who went through such painstaking forensic countermeasures would do something as reckless as killing someone associated with his own campus. It practically points an arrow his way,” she said, ignorant to the way Hannibal’s gaze sharpened. “Plus, it’s clearly premeditated. He planned to kill Hobbs. He might have followed him to Ball State.”

“He used Hobbs’s security measures against him. Maybe he used the same ruse, too,” Jack muttered, glancing up at the small audience before him. “We should run the profile against anyone else who checked in to tour the college that same week.” Jack nodded once as if affirming the decision with himself and placed his hands on his hips, the jacket of his suit bunching with the motion. “Doctor Lecter, would you stay here and help with finishing up the profile while I get started on getting some names? I’d like the full report on my desk by no later than four. I’ll email Doctor Bloom and Doctor Chilton, see what they have to say and then we can all circle back and compare notes. In the meantime, I’m going to arrange a trip to Minnesota. See what evidence we can find in his home and the hunting cabin he owned.”

He didn’t wait for Hannibal to respond, his request more a command as he hastily retreated from the room, a vigor to his step in light of the building profile. There was a spark to it, a flint that crackled with the beginning of fire each time a clue was unraveled in the mystery of a kill that typically Hannibal indulged in beside Jack, riveted by the way chaotic murders and violence were broken down into a scientific formula. An equation they were simplifying, solving for _x._

He did not share the quiet appreciation this time however, his nod stiff and his assurance that he would do his best coming from between gritted teeth. It was spiraling now, untethering faster than he could control and he loathed this. Mayhem and unpredictability were things he typically delighted but this brand brought with it a dread, a disruption to a tenuous sort of calm and contentedness that prickled at his nerves.

He swallowed thickly, schooling his features as the three pathologists bowed their heads together, chatting and fine-tuning the details of a profile that he tried to pull and dissuade apart where reason and justification would allow.

Not as if it mattered, simply brakes that slowed the train of reality but could not come to a full stop.

Jack would petition for the list of visitors, and within a few week’s time- slowed thankfully, mercifully, by an understaffed administration department scrambling to find such old information for a long-forgotten case- that list would be on his desk.

Will Graham’s name would sit on that list and it was only a few degrees of association to make from there.

Will Graham.

Donald Sutcliffe.

Hannibal Lecter.

Names linking together that individually meant nothing except for the various lives carved around them but when considered in relation to each other painted an image that Hannibal did not wish to see unveiled. Too many coincidences, circumstantial evidence that would be damning when written in conjunction.

Jack would see it, see Will’s history of violent fantasies, suspicions mounting until he could gain a subpoena for his full record. A record that tangled with the same record of the Chesapeake Ripper.

A house of cards, tumbling with a small prod at its base. Fluttering to the ground at his feet.

~x~

“Hey, your girlfriend’s here.”

Will glanced up from where he stood by the supply shelves, sliding a case of disposable cups up above his head. His coworker, Dillon, stood in the threshold of the stock closet, arms spread out and fingers curling around the door frame. The light streamed in from the room behind her, turning her into a shadowed silhouette, a hazy highlight blurry across her dyed blue hair. Painted lips were cocked into an uneven smile, and Will frowned, knitting his brow. “But we’re closed.”

“Ooh, _that’s_ not what you say when I tell you your girlfriend’s here,” she said, humor warm in her voice and eyes sparkling. “Trouble in paradise?”

He snorted, averting his gaze as he moved to settle another box on the shelf, the wheels of the metal boat clanging noisily with the sudden drop in weight. “Yeah, we broke up the other night,” he said with a shrug, placing a hand on the curved arm of the empty boat and pushing it into the back of the narrow but long closet.

“Aw. Do you want me to kick her out? Or beat her up? We don’t have Jell-O but we have some leftover mousse,” she said with a wink, stepping aside as Will moved toward the door, huffing a soft laugh at her dry humor. He liked Dillon. She was, relatively speaking, a lazy and unmotivated worker who spent the majority of her shift on her phone when she could manage it and avoided the more physical aspects of the job. While most of his coworkers in the small cafe- a glorified coffee house, really, with overpriced salads and sandwiches and gourmet desserts which came prepackaged and were arranged neatly on white plates as if they were freshly baked- disliked her for this reason, Will preferred it.

A delicate balance had been arranged to their aversions, and Dillon would sit by the counter and handle the customers in between scrolls of her phone while Will hid away, stocking shelves and preparing product. They were scheduled together often- more so because Will was the only one who hadn’t complained about her than by virtue of their dynamic and he was content with the arrangement.

He preferred the company of packaged cups crinkling in his ear, an oven timer blaring through his thoughts to the company of customers- either too chatty and sociable for his liking or simply _rude_.

If nothing else, working had certainly made Hannibal’s position on what exactly should be done with the discourteous all the more understandable.

“No, not this time,” he muttered, stepping into the dining area of the cafe. Callie was standing by the door, leaning against it. Her face was pulled into a look of muted anger and Will winced even as he moved toward her, lips pursed.

Her narrowed eyes widened, slanting down to his still swollen and split lip before returning to his gaze. “Did you get in a fight?” she asked, the words barbed despite the concern sloping through the syllables and he frowned, raising a hand self-consciously to his bruised cheek.

“No. I slipped in the mud and fell,” he lied, clearing his throat as he tried to change the subject. “What are you doing here?”

Her anger returned to her, and she scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re a dick, Will,” she muttered, raising a hand and pulling at a strand of her short blonde hair, a nervous habit he knew too well. “I’ve been trying to call and text you since you left me at the party the other night and I kept going to voicemail. Then I heard about Noah and how no one’s seen him since and it freaked me out. I was so worried about you and this whole time you’ve just been ignoring me?”

He stammered, twisting behind him to see Dillon slowly wiping down a nearby table, doing her best to look as if she wasn’t listening in on the conversation. He tossed a scowl her way before turning back to Callie, settling his gaze on the lock of hair she twirled around instead of her eyes. “My phone died and I just never bothered to turn it back on,” he said- not necessarily a lie. He had yet to turn it back on since the night he killed Noah, enjoying the relative silence and stillness of his life, suspended in the moment before the chaos that would follow now that the weekday arrived and Noah’s absence could not be summed up to a weekend of indulgences. Parties and drugs and pretty girls who might invite him inside so his roommate would be unperturbed by the empty bed beside him.

The weekdays were different, a call for normalcy that Noah would not greet, and with it would come suspicion. He imagined by tomorrow morning, the campus would be alert and sharp with the gossip, rumors of a student’s disappearance, and theories already tangling together. He had already heard a few tentative ones, pulling into a history of drunk driving that lead some to believe Noah had simply driven into his own fate- lost or yet to be found in a twisted pile of metal and shards of glass, the smell of oil and gas and blood thick in the air.

It was easier to sit with the silence of his phone than anxiously check it furtively, waiting for a news alert to blare across the screen. He didn’t receive many calls or texts- Callie and his dad were really the only people who ever made his phone chime, the occasional photo of a dog breaking up the many texts she would send him throughout the day. It had felt almost freeing to not have to be bothered by it, though the silence was a bitter reminder of his own dysfunction that would make his cheeks warm with a feverish blush.

She considered him, scrutinizing his face for traces of a lie before huffing out a breath, releasing the tautly pulled strand of hair so it bounced around her face. “If it were anyone else I’d think they were lying but I actually believe you’re the only person to go that long without a phone,” she mumbled, tone sitting somewhere between terse and fond. She sighed, lowering her head to try and catch his gaze. “Can we talk please?”

“I um...I’m still working-” he gave a furtive glance to the clock.

“You can leave,” Dillon interjected, no longer concerned with looking busy. “I can finish up. It’s only fair considering how often you’ve done it for me.”

“Are you su-”

“Thanks, Dillon,” Callie beamed, reaching for Will’s hands and tugging him through the door and into the night. It was muggy, all the rain over the last few days clinging to the air, making it humid and oppressive. Sweat clung to his hairline underneath the brim of the hat he wore- part of the uniform- and he pulled it off, running a hand through the damp and flattened curls.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked, slowly turning in the direction of the municipal lot where he parked for his shifts. It was an easy pace, sluggish. Allowing enough time for a short conversation but one he could cut off swiftly by sliding into his car if the need arose. She followed at the same pace, sighing sullenly.

“I wanted to apologize,” she began, glancing at him from her periphery. “I was kind of a bitch the other night, and it wasn’t fair.”

Will frowned, uncertain of what to say. He shoved the hat into his apron pocket and hunched his shoulders as his hands slid in his pockets. A moment passed, and he realized with a flicker of irritation she was waiting for him to speak next- perhaps wanting an apology of his own. “I’m...sorry too,” he mumbled, though he wasn’t entirely certain what he was apologizing for. “I guess it was a bad night for both of us.”

In different ways, though. He doubted she spent the better part of her evening frantically trying to cover up for a hasty murder.

She laughed, the sound bright and tinkling. “I’ll say. I got so drunk after you left, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to even smell peppermint schnapps without vomiting now.” She crinkled her nose, revulsion tugging at her plump lips. “Not my finest night.”

Will scoffed. “The feeling’s mutual,” he agreed, his tone sharp and cutting enough to curtail any further questions.

Her steps slowed, coming to a halt at the entrance to the municipal lot. It was late into the night- late enough that the smaller businesses were closing, leaving only the restaurants and bars alive and thrumming, lights filtering from the windows and casting a hazy glow on the sidewalk. Periodically, the door to the nearby bar would push in, blaring music and laughter punctuating the night only to be stoppered when the door swung close. The street lamps flushed the lot in white light- the lot mostly empty now, though he could see Callie’s car nearby, far away from his own.

“Maybe I can make it up to you? We can go back to my place and order pizza and make out? Just make out, if that’s all you want,” she said, smiling shyly as a blush crept over her face. She hesitated a moment before rising on her toes, reaching out with either hand to grip Will’s upper arms as she pressed her lips to his. He stilled under the kiss before tentatively returning it, pulling his hands out from his pockets to settle them on her waist. She was soft beneath his touch, skin warm even through the blouse and thin cardigan she wore and he sighed, the sound pressed between their lips as he pulled her close.

One of her hands slid from his arm, rising until her fingers tangled in his curls and cupped the back of his head, tongue trailing across the seam of his mouth. His lips separated, his tongue prodding against her own and he slanted his head to the side to deepen the kiss, eyelashes fluttering over his cheek as he blinked his eyes open. Perhaps it was the prickling of his insecurity, the realization that they were kissing so intimately in a place so open, where anyone could see.

Or perhaps he felt the eyes on him, his gaze finding the form easily, leaning against an unfamiliar car parked beside his own. Just on the edge of the light offered by the streetlamp, obscured by shadows but somehow he recognized it- recognized the form of the man watching him, a monster hidden within the seams of a disguise and he pulled away from Callie, tearing his eyes away to glance at her pink and swollen lips. “Um, I have a paper I need to write. But...Thursday, maybe? I don’t have any morning classes the next day,” he said, lips twitching into a flickering smile.

She frowned, hurt by the rejection before returning the smile, shoulders slumping in relief that he wasn’t canceling on her entirely. “Oh...okay, yeah. I have a paper I should probably work on too,” she said, pulling her hand from his hair and pushing her own behind her ear. “Thursday works.”

She raised forward once more, the kiss cut short as Will pulled away before it could linger, settling a hand on the small of her back as he guided her to her car. “Great. I...I can’t wait. It will be nice,” he said, opening the car door for her.

She slid inside, smiling slyly at him as she said, “can you turn your phone on though, please? So that I don’t have an anxiety attack when I get radio silence from you and spend an hour searching for you?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said with a wince. “I’m sorry, really, I just-”

“It’s fine, Will,” she interrupted, giving him a quick peck that he leaned forward to receive before closing the door. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

He stepped back as the car sputtered to life, headlights flashing and cutting through the shadows from the buildings that encompassed the lot. He watched her pull away, waving as she passed down the road. He turned around the moment he lost sight of her car, his pace just shy of a sprint as he cut across the pavement to where his own car was parked. The features of the man waiting for him became more recognizable the closer he approached, blond and silver hair brushing over his brow, cheekbones sharp and angular.

He slowed when he was only ten feet away, watching as Hannibal pushed himself off of the car- a rental, maybe, bearing New Jersey plates. “Hello, Will,” he greeted, though it lacked the usual warmth, the almost comedic cheeriness that seemed at such odds with the savagery he was capable of.

“Hi,” he said, brows knitting in concern. Hannibal wasn’t a man to act without reason, and he swallowed, dread making his stomach leaden. Too long a drive for a social visit, and he felt his weight shifting nervously as he bounced on the heels of his feet. “Why are you here?” A rude thing to say, but it hardly seemed to matter, anxiety pulsing through him like the flapping wings of a bird, trapped within his chest. “Is it...because of the other night?” He lowered his voice to a whisper, cheeks reddening with how scandalous it sounded but unsure of what else to say. Noah’s disappearance had been noticed, but surely he had more time before an investigation was underway- before he might fall under the gleam of suspicion.

“I would have called, but I’m afraid that would have been unwise,” Hannibal said in way of an apology, and then he turned, moving around the car and pulling open the door to the backseat. He leaned forward, torso cut in half for several seconds before he finally pulled back, a file clutched in his hands. “I’m afraid _the other night_ is the least of your worries,” he said, and he held out the file to Will.

He grabbed it, glancing curiously at the embossing on the cover- too dark to read the words printed in the seal. He ran his hand over it, frowning as he turned his gaze back to Hannibal. “An FBI file?”

The look he received was what he could only describe as exasperated, lips parting in a soft exhalation and brows rising in an arch. “You don’t follow the news too closely, do you?” When Will shrugged in answer, he added, “Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s murder is under investigation by the FBI, renewed interest brought on after his daughter confessed to helping him with his abductions.”

He didn’t realize he stopped breathing until he felt the burn of his lungs, collapsing and withering behind his ribs, his stomach contorting sharply. His heartbeat was a tangible thing, the thrum of his pulse reverberating against his skin, trembling in his veins and he swallowed too harshly, pulling at the muscles in his neck. “Is it...bad?” he asked, licking his lips. It wasn’t quite the question he meant to ask- _how much do they know?_ \- but it was all he was capable of.

Hannibal considered him for a moment, his eyes dark- somewhere between maroon and black, dimly gleaming from the low light bounced off the shiny exteriors of the cars. After what felt like ages, he nodded slowly. “Not just yet. But soon it will be.”

The sound of his heart as it pressed against his ribs was so loud, he thought for sure that Hannibal had to have heard it. Heard the staccato beating against bones, cracking and splintering beneath the frantic pulse but he was unaware to the orchestra of his breakdown, blood rushing like the sounds of a roaring ocean in his ear, throat constricting with panic.

Will forced himself to nod, carefully pulling his composure together despite the fissures cutting through him like a statue dropped one too many times never quite shattering even as the lines embedded in stone grew deeper and longer. “What...what happens now?” he asked.

The file sat in his hands- unopened and heated, hot enough to brand his skin with the details of his crimes and the evidence that would point his way. Unable to open it, to read about the full depth of his mistakes.

Hannibal inhaled slowly, clamping a hand on Will’s shoulder and using it to pull him to the car. “Have you had dinner yet, Will?”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest change in this AU is that Jack is actually competent at his job.
> 
> Next up: Murder bois come up with some murder plans. Because the best way to get out of trouble for murder is with more murder.


	6. Conspiracy

**Chapter Five: Conspiracy**

The door closed with a click as Will settled into the passenger seat, head twisting to the side as he waited for Hannibal to make his way around the car. The file still sat in his lap, slowly curling inward from his nervous twisting. Teeth dug into his bottom lip, a stinging pain sparking when he pinched against the scab, peeling away chapped flakes of skin. The feel of his heart beating in his chest was dull, a deep and resonating thing as Hannibal finally joined him in the car, turning the keys in the ignition.

“Where are we going?” he asked, the words a croak from how dry his mouth was becoming, throat constricting.

Hannibal spared him a quick glance. “I rented an apartment for the evening. The advent of the internet has allowed for great strides in rental accommodations. Far more private, and it’s easy enough to circumvent leaving a trail,” he answered, twisting in his seat as he pulled out from the parking space slowly. “It seemed the best solution so we would have a place to speak. I assumed your dorm would not be adequate in terms of privacy.”

Will snorted, rubbing a hand down his face and dragging on the skin. “Not for me, no. My roommate seems to make out just fine, though,” he muttered, dropping his hand so it slapped against the file. He swallowed, a painful notion that tightened against his drying mouth. “Is it...I mean...are they going to find out it was me?” he asked, stomach contorting at the thought.

Hannibal glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, hands tightening their hold on the steering wheel. “You will be on the shortlist for suspects soon. You will become the primary suspect shortly after, and by then the problems will only be beginning,” he answered. His tone was measured as it ever was, the line of his mouth and a slight crease in his brow the only outward signs that he was tense, muscles pulled just as taut as Will’s.

He imagined he didn’t like feeling out of control.

“Should...should I...leave?” he asked, shifting his legs with a burst of erratic energy. It seemed like an extreme thought- running away, fleeing before the investigation could unwind and unravel him. But it was preferable to staying, awaiting the inevitable arrest Hannibal seemed certain would come. The thought of handcuffs clinking shut on his wrists, cold and pinching tight on his flesh, chain rattling with each movement, sent a shiver of dread down his spine that pooled in his gut.

He had no money, though. Only paltry savings that would barely get him into a different country, let alone enough to build a secure foundation in his new half-life. He would be a fugitive, always glancing over his shoulder, waiting for the veil of comfort to give way.

“If that is what you want,” Hannibal said simply as though they were discussing dinner options and not Will trying to evade capture. Tossing aside what little segment of life he managed to create, donning a new name and new identity and living discreetly amid strangers. “Though, I’d recommend considering all your options before making a decision.”

Will’s lips tugged into a twitching, insincere grin. “What other options are there?”

“I will tell you, but first,” Hannibal began, pulling to idle as he approached a red light and taking the opportunity to fix Will with a firm gaze, “I need you to tell me about the night you killed Hobbs.”

He licked his lips, eyes glancing at the windshield spread before him, the red lights a nebulous halo above. “Um...where do I start?”

“Where did you get him? How?” Hannibal leaned forward, eyes gleaming in the darkened cab of the rental vehicle. Even in such a precarious moment, Will’s future and freedom dangling by a thin, fraying chord of rope, he was _hungry_. Craving the details of his violence, by all the torment Will could wring out with his slender hands.

“His motel. I followed him to figure out where it was and came back when his daughter was out. I knocked on his door and asked if he could give me a jump. I waited until he turned away from me to attach the cables, then I strangled him until he passed out.” He swallowed, recalling the moment with vivid clarity. The golden, muted orange light of dusk settling over the world- rapidly turning dark but still too earlier for the damning lights of the nearby streetlamps to flicker to life. Hobbs’s car the only other one on the side of the lot, obscured by the gated dumpster.

The panic that erupted as Will rose onto the ball’s of his feet and slung an arm around his neck, forcing the taller man to arch his back, a reverse bow to Will as his knees buckled. He tried to pry himself free, scrabbling against the hold with dragging nails that slid down the slick fabric of Will’s windbreaker, the sweater beneath too thick to allow the nails to pinch against his skin.

He could almost hear it all now, the gurgling, aborted breaths weaving with the sounds of traffic, tires rolling across the asphalt and a horn blaring noisily on a nearby street. Knees banging against the frame of a forgotten car mixing with the muffled noise of wind whipping against the windows.

“Where did you kill him?” Hannibal asked, pulling Will into the present. Away from the parking lot painted in the fiery colors of dusk and the slowing pulse beneath his arms.

He blinked away the scene, flickering away until he was once more sitting in the car beside Hannibal, face turned towards the window. They were driving along the river, the lights of the city mirrored hazily in the black surface of the water, threads of gold and orange refracting off the slowly shifting current. “I killed him where I left him, in the field. But there was an abandoned meat processing plant in the next county over. I left him there while I returned to the campus event for a bit. And I um...I tortured him in the industrial cooler,” he admitted.

It had smelled foul, like damp and sodden laundry, half-washed and forgotten, thick with mildew. Sour and fetid from the mold clinging to the plastic sheathing on the doors, but there were drains in the floor and rusted chains hanging from the ceiling. He had been surprised when they held, did not snap as Will slipped the hook between the bound together wrists.

The water from the hose still ran, sputtering to a groaning start and the water that came out of the spout was dark and smelled just as stale as everything else. But it had done the job, pushing the blood down the slanted floors and into the drain.

“The next county. Different jurisdictions. Good,” Hannibal muttered, disrupting the blood-stained and putrid smelling memories.

Any delight that might have come from the praise was short-lived, slipping from his grasp at the realization that it didn’t truly matter now. The FBI had far greater reaches than the local police department.

“So, he survived long enough for you to bring him to the field and display him.”

“Barely,” Will said with a shrug, recalling how sluggish the man was as he dragged him back to the car, wound in a tarp. The bright colors of the graffiti laden-walls the only visible thing so late at night. He thought he was dead, the weight too heavy, too clumsy in his hold as he dragged him across the field, the terrain soft and forgiving to his tracks. Ever-shifting and changing with rain. It wasn’t until he dropped him over the antlers, heard the rattling moan, and a single sputtering cough that he realized Hobbs was still alive.

He was dead by the time Will had pushed down enough for the antlers to pierce through entirely, delicate velvet protruding through pale flesh.

“Where was your dad while you did all this? Did you drug him again?” Hannibal asked.

Will nodded, tearing his gaze away from the river, the velvet sky above with the crescent-shaped moon hanging above him. “He ugh...He was meant to be my alibi. The event was really crowded and I told him I was going to a lecture when I abducted Hobbs. He saw me in between the abduction and the kill, and I drugged him for that part so he slept as I snuck in and out of our hotel room. When he woke up, I was showering and it was seven in the morning. Our hotel had security cameras in the hall, but not outside the rooms so I crawled out the window.”

It had seemed ironclad at the time, a perfect crime that had left him trembling in excitement and not anxiety. It still did, and he narrowed his eyes as Hannibal parked alongside the curb of a quiet street, red brick buildings illuminated by the white glow of streetlamps. “What makes you so sure it will be bad? I mean...there was no evidence, and it’s been so long I can’t imagine there will be any after all this time. Even if I’m a suspect, they can’t prove I did it. Circumstantial, right?” his voice wavered even as his confidence became more certain, more assured. He had done it all _right_. He was careful and smart and there were no loose threads for them to pull, unravel him at his seams.

_Right?_

“Jack is going to subpoena the list of visiting potential students for the week of Hobbs’s murder. Your name will be on that list.” He shut the car off, pulling the keys and holding them in his grasp so the metal teeth poked between his fingers. “You will fit the preliminary profile, and when he requests a more formal background check, your history of violent tendencies will flag you.”

Will inhaled slowly, a slight throb blossoming behind his temples, the beginning of a tension headache from the firm clench of his jaw. “But there won’t be evidence,” he said again, clutching to it like a lifeline’ a thread of hope.

Hannibal pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly side to side. “Not physical. All purely circumstantial, as you said. But Jack will be hellbent on finding whatever he can. He may even resort to some more...unethical tactics to achieve it.”

“Why though? All for one guy?” Will asked, words sputtering and spit slicking his lips as his tone was sharper, harsher than he intended. “He killed a bunch of people! Why would _Jack_ care so much?” It was indignant, infuriating that he anticipated the investigation to be more thorough, more demanding than the original. More care given to the killer than to all the girls he killed.

Hobbs _deserved_ it. He was a blight on the world, a stain on humanity that needed to be purged. How many resources had been expended trying to catch him? How many people left mourning in his wake, unable to even bury their children and send them properly to rest because of what he did? Because of his greed and selfishness that he justified as love, grief of his own that others suffered for.

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, turning away from Will to glance at the street- empty despite the early hours of the evening. Quiet and still, not unlike the street he lived on in Baltimore, wealthy homes with neighbors who kept to themselves. “It’s not Hobbs’s death that will inspire such single-minded attention. It will be Sutcliffe’s.”

Will stiffened at the name, lips pursing tightly as if it’s very utterance was a curse. Blasphemous, even, fingers curling into fists and nails digging crescent-shaped cuts into the soft flesh of his palm. His tone was terse, clipped when he said, “He was killed by the Ripper. I was already investigated for that.”

“I was your alibi,” Hannibal said simply, nodding once in affirmation. “But you wanted Sutcliffe dead- it’s well documented that you did. And while he hasn’t seen it yet, soon Jack will see the similarities between Hobbs’s death and the Ripper kills. That’s a lot of coincidences, Will.”

The muscles in his jaw clenched, teeth grinding against teeth as understanding came to him suddenly, the ground beneath him quivering and crumpling. A tenuous infrastructure, carefully built on lies and alibis dependent on the other and the revelation wasn’t so much the promised storm as it was an earthquake, tectonic plates colliding against each other and creating fissures, tremors. All of it threatening to collapse because of one list bearing Will’s name, a history of violence that would forever mark him as a danger to himself and others. “I will fit the profile of Hobbs’s killer. How well will you fit the profile of the Ripper?”

“A profile for the Ripper has never been officially agreed upon. Too many conflicting opinions,” he answered. “But some facets of it have been firmly decided, and I will meet them all.”

Will’s gaze strayed, turning to the street stretching before him, the distorted and distant light of the skyline rising above him. “They’re going to figure it out. All of it.”

There was the sound of a seatbelt unclipping, fabric rustling as Hannibal shifted in his seat and prepared to step out. His fingers rested on the handle of the door where it lingered as he said, “there will be no evidence to support it. But yes.”

He huffed out a soft, hollow laugh, lips shaking as he offered a grimacing smile, flickering like the flames of a fire. “Tell me again why I should reconsider running?” he asked, though he supposed a more appropriate question was why shouldn’t _they_ run. Hannibal was just as mired in his crimes as he was, pulled into the gaping cavern created by the earth separating beneath him.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, then. They were exactly as alone as the other in this life and maybe they would be less lonely in another, pulled together out of need. The uncertainty of what he would do, how he would manage on his own in an unfamiliar country seemed less daunting when he imagined Hannibal by his side. The threat of being discovered, the anxiety of his freedom coming to an end was less of a concern- there was comfort in Hannibal, an assurance and exuberance that was infectious.

“I will. But first, it’s getting late. We should start making dinner,” Hannibal said, and he pushed open the door, triggering the overhead light. Will blinked at the sudden brightness, dots bursting in his vision, before offering a weary sigh and following Hannibal into the building, the folder curling in his grasp.

~x~

The meat sizzled as it was dropped into the pain, fat rendering against the heated skillet. Will had pulled himself onto the counter thoughtlessly, his mind too dazed to consider his actions and realize how tactless it might be until he was already seated, hands gripping the counter on either side of his hip. Hannibal had given him a fleeting glance but said nothing, turning away to prepare the simple dinner.

Though their definitions of simple varied greatly, and despite the contortions of his stomach and tightness of his throat, saliva was thick behind Will’s teeth. The aroma of garlic and thyme wafted around him, and his stomach gave an embarrassing grumble that Hannibal was considerate enough to pretend not to hear even as his lips tipped up into a small smile. It was far grander than what Will would’ve eaten if left to his own devices- microwavable mac and cheese with radioactive orange sauce, or slices of cheese on Wheat Thins if he was feeling fancy, paired with a warm bottle of Gatorade.

He had missed Hannibal’s cooking, the rhythmic sounds of a knife clacking on a cutting board and water bubbling as it came to a rapid boil. A therapeutic and grounding symphony that was synonymous with comfort and already his muscles were unfurling, easing despite the reality of the situation clutching into him with sharpened talons.

The reality that it would all come to an end.

His hard-won freedom pulled from his hands after only a few short years. Replaced with shackles and iron bars and a jumpsuit uniform to identify him with a color and a number. Reduced to color-coding.

He was startled from his thoughts by the _pop_ of a cork from the neck of a wine bottle, glancing up to watch as the deep red liquid sloshed against the well of the wine glass sluggishly. Hannibal twisted the bottle with a flourish, stemming the flow, and he handed the glass to Will before turning to pour his own.

“Cabernet Sauvignon. With notes of cherry and the slight taste of pepper, that truly evokes-” Hannibal’s words were cut short as he caught sight of Will, bringing the glass to his lips and downing it in one gulp. His throat protested against it, his already dry mouth made worse by the deep and bold flavor of the wine. He winced as he drained it and tipped his head forward, empty glass clutched in his hand.

Hannibal blinked, gaze flitting down to the glass he poured for himself before offering that to Will as well. Will blushed, heat creeping up his face as he accepted it, sheepishly handing him the empty glass in exchange. Hannibal filled it dutifully, using it as his own and swirling it beneath his nose, nostrils flaring to inhale the full bouquet. “Perhaps take your time on that one. It’s not the easiest wine out there to chug, though I’m impressed by your willingness to try,” he chided, though amusement colored his words, a quirking smile obscured as he examined the glass for a moment, twisting it partially in his hold before taking a small sip.

“Sorry. I guess I’m a little worked up,” Will gave in answer, mirroring the man before him, watching his red-hued reflection in the wine as it was distorted by the slow circle of his hand. It smelled no different than it did before to his less discerning nose, but Hannibal seemed appreciative of the gesture.

“Evidence will lead the sway of the investigation. We may not be able to control the associations they will make, but there’s still time to control the evidence,” Hannibal assured, settling his glass down on the counter as he examined the food, made certain none of it was overcooking before turning his focus back to Will. “We will give them evidence that they can convict on. I’ve already told Jack I can’t stay in Minnesota for too long due to other professional commitments. I’ll make a stop to Indiana on my way back and give them what they need to make an arrest in the processing plant.”

Will furrowed his brow, taking a small sip of the wine, tasting it as he hadn’t done before in his haste to consume as much as possible, to flood his body with the pleasant warmth and numbness. “Wait...you’re framing someone?”

“The only way to stop it now is to misdirect, I’m afraid. It will not be adequate in stemming suspicions, but at the end of the day, arrests are made based on forensics, not coincidences. Jack may still suspect you and me, but without anything to convict on there is nothing he can do. Someone else to arrest will only further muddy the waters and force his hand in closing the case,” Hannibal answered, flipping the meat in the pan so the other side could sear, fat spitting upward with the motion.

Will frowned, kicking his legs lazily before him, socked feet brushing against the cupboard doors below. “Are you going to frame his daughter?”

“She would have had motive, and I believe I can use a few techniques in therapy to persuade her of her guilt. No matter what the circumstances point to, finding evidence that Abigail was at the crime scene and having her confess to it will be all Jack needs to convict.”

Will blinked. “Brainwashing, you mean? How are you so sure it will work?”

Hannibal offered an affronted look, eyes hardened and lips pulled into a frown as if Will was being unreasonable for doubting him. “Codependency will breed trust. From there, the brain is a fairly malleable thing that I will use to my advantage. She will lean on me because soon, she will have no one else.” He turned away, rifling through a cabinet for two plates that he set on the counter with a soft clink. He drained the pasta, steam billowing from the sink as hot water coating the dishes that had been left from the prep.

“Soon?” Will asked, taking another sip of the wine, relishing in the feverish warmth that flooded his cheeks and made his limbs heavy, weighted with the pull of the alcohol. His thoughts were already slowing, made disconnected by his indulgence in the wine but eventually, he understood what Hannibal was implying, lips twisting wryly. “You’re going to kill her mom in Minnesota, aren’t you? _That’s_ your plan? You’re going to orphan her so she has no other choice but to trust you?”

Hannibal shot him an accusatory look, eyes sparkling. “ _We’re_ orphaning her. I’m just finishing what you started.”

Will opened his mouth to argue, but quickly clamped it closed, huffing in annoyance. He took another sip of wine, aware that he was quickly barreling through tipsy and into murkier, less certain territory but unable to stop. He didn’t like the idea; she may not have been innocent, but _guilty_ felt too loaded a term for her as well. Twisted into a role by a diseased father who made her a partner to his crimes, too devoted in the name of paternal love to turn against him. Too afraid of what would happen to her if she stopped.

It seemed unfair that she would be punished for all the crimes she did not commit.

“The world will want her imprisoned. They were denied the justice of Hobbs’s imprisonment, so they will demand Abigail’s blood in its place,” Hannibal said, and Will blinked, realizing he had voiced his dislike aloud. “If anything, it’s the more humane option. We can claim insanity, that she was in a dissociative state when Hobbs was killed. She will spend the rest of her days in a hospital, safely guarded against a world that would ostracize her at best, demand some justice of the vigilante sort at worst.” He pulled his gaze away from the meal, glancing at Will with softened eyes. “It is likely she will go to jail regardless, for helping her father. There’s no reason why you have to go as well.”

They fell into a none-too-easy silence, Will’s gaze trained on Hannibal as he finished readying dinner though not looking at him, mind-shifting and pulling him away from the moment. He drank the rest of the wine in two gulps, the taste turning to ash in his dry mouth. He winced as he pulled back, mouth arid and coated in the bitter taste. His teeth were stained red and his lips were wet, a bead of wine sitting in the corner of his lips and slipping down his chin.

The quick tossing back of the drink caught Hannibal’s attention, and he closed the distance between them, head tilting to the side as he rose a brow. “Do you find the idea unfavorable?”

“Yes,” Will answered, lips slick with spit and wine. “It feels wrong.”

He rose a hand to wipe his chin but it fell to his lap when Hannibal reached out, grasping hold of his chin and tilting his head back to meet his eyes. He whimpered at the touch, the snap of his neck just short of being painful. “Need I remind you, Will, it is not only your freedom and future being threatened here. For better or worse, we’re bound together, and I will do what I need to do to retain the life I desire. Some foolish girl with survivor’s guilt isn’t going to be the end of my story. And neither will you.” Bourbon colored eyes, threaded with maroon, flickered across his face- from blue eyes to wine-painted lips and to the drop of wine coating Will’s chin. It lingered there before the pad of a thumb swiped against it, wiping it away.

Will followed the motion, watching as the dark red wine settled into the fingerprints, the grooves like canyons of flesh. The thumb curled back under his chin as Hannibal added, “Have I made my intentions clear?”

Will swallowed thickly, a quick, jerking nod restrained in the tight grasp. Once, Hannibal had promised Will that any fate he tried to subject him to would become Will’s as well, be it a cell or a casket or freedom.

He was not so stupid to test the sincerity of the promise.

Hannibal smiled at him, revealing the sharpened tips of his teeth, and when he pulled away, Will found himself reaching up, rubbing the underside of his chin where the touch had been. Hannibal had all but forgotten the younger boy, shifting easily into the persona of the host as he returned to dinner. The plates were artfully arranged, sliced cuts of meat curling around a neat bed of spaghetti, dressed in a creamy sauce with fresh basil strewn in delicate chiffonade ribbons. Wilted Swiss chard with roasted fennel bulbs rested on top the meat, bright green and inviting and Will slowly slid from the countertop to follow Hannibal to the table, sitting down just as a plate was placed before him.

The bottle of wine sat in the center of the table, and he reached for it, pouring more into the empty glass still held in his hands as he waited for Hannibal to sit opposite him.

When he finally did, Will said in a soft voice, “still, they’ll suspect you of being the Ripper. Even if they can’t do anything, they’ll watch you. Should we...I mean it doesn’t seem like a good time to plan for another sounder. It would be best to lay low.” He thought of their tentative plans, the promise to hunt and kill together, shared under the protective cloak of night, alchemical and shifting. A bubble of disappointment filled his chest, pressing against his ribs. There had been something intoxicating about the idea, a tantalizing notion that made the more depraved parts of him stir, excitement teeming his blood.

He took a sip of the wine as he made to put the bottle back, his head swaying with loftiness, paradoxically heavy and light with the beginning of his inebriation. He was trying to drown something within him, drown the anxiety and the guilt of knowing that he had created such a mess. Pulled and dragged down so many people with his actions.

He found alcohol had a way of cushioning the blow, creating a lake that would ease the drop to rock bottom.

“One could argue that would be more suspicious, especially considering how long it’s been since the last sounder,” Hannibal countered, reaching out to grab the bottle when Will nearly settled it on his plate, threatening to upend the whole dish. He placed it further along the table, a silent declaration to Will that he had enough.

Will nodded, swallowing roughly and wincing at the resonating ache. He turned his focus to his neglected food, fork dragging across the plate and through the sauce. He barely tasted it, his senses too soaked in wine but it was hearty and warm and his thoughts ran elsewhere, away from the dinner table he sat at. To the very near future and the suspicion he would never quite shift under. Even offering Abigail Hobbs up wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t completely absolve him in the eyes of a discerning FBI agent.

Perhaps Hannibal would be fine living under the suspicions- there were probably even those around him who would refuse to see it regardless of the mounting evidence. People who would disregard the compelling circumstances with a flourish of their hand and a laugh at how _preposterous_ an idea it was. He was respected in his field, charismatic. He controlled the narrative and perception with such ease that it was a game to him, a child turning to a new toy with reckless delight and tossing it in the air until it shattered. Until boredom overcame him and he sought something new.

So unlike Will. A young, asocial man with a history of mental illness and violence. His name when googled would bring with it a sordid series of articles soon to be written, horrid things tacked to his name that would only further repel the world to him. Employers and a graduate program eager to distance themselves from him.

He could change his name, move across the country. Still running away, still forcing another to be punished for his crimes.

He stabbed a piece of meat more aggressively than necessary, chasing it with more wine.

Hannibal rose opposite him, disappearing into the small kitchen and emerging a moment later with a glass of water that he set beside Will’s hand. “Jack has been obsessed with catching the Ripper for many years now, Will. I daresay it might even be entertaining to see him get so close but unable to make the catch,” Hannibal said, genuine humor warming his words, eyes gleaming as he sat back down.

Will scoffed, bringing the water to his lips and watching as the refracted image of the man before him distorted through it. It was refreshing, pleasantly cool and he drank half the glass before settling it back down, wiping his mouth with the back of his knuckles. He was sincere, he knew. Of course Hannibal would delight in it, ever confident in his ability to show only what he wanted to show to the world. Just enough for the world to glimpse his true self but not enough to capture it.

The Ripper would never be captured, not unless Hannibal thought there was something to gain from it of course.

Will blinked, startled by the sound of his own fork clattering noisily on the plate, bouncing to the floor. Sauce smeared his jeans from where it struck him, and he stared at the stain lazily, his brain sluggish even as it churned, synapses sparking.

Hannibal sighed, muttering something about having to cut Will off sooner next time, but Will ignored the admonishments. He remained lax in the chair, staring at the sauce marring his jean, seeping against the skin of his thigh.

“Maybe it’s time Jack _does_ catch the Ripper,” he said, the words slurred but still clear, concise enough that Hannibal’s gaze narrowed in interest, Will finally glancing away from his stained jeans. “Might as well embrace the suspicions if we’re going to get them anyway. Go out with a bang instead of a whimper.”

“How drunk are you?” Hannibal asked, his tone light and playful, lips pulling into a wide smile.

Will huffed out a laugh, head swooning. His mood was rising, almost manic with the sudden and unrestrained joy, mingling with the alcohol hot in his veins. “I’m serious. The trail’s going to lead to us and it might just be better to go with the current of the river than try to fight against it.”

The smile waned, lips parted as Hannibal considered him, trying to discern the riddle that did not exist. “A final sounder to gift dear old Jack before the ultimate prize of finally catching the Ripper?” he mused, voice roughened, husky. It mingled within Will, mixing with the wine to make a heady cocktail that thrummed in his pulse and he licked his lips, dry and tinted red. “I’m assuming our timeline of ten weeks is irrelevant now, correct?”

Will laughed a bitter, hollow laugh. “My semester will come to an unexpected early end when they start investigating me for murder. Might as well get a head start. Probably in a few weeks, before they consider me the main suspect,” he gave in answer, twirling the tines of his fork through the noodles, collecting them in a neat pile that he brought to his mouth, chewing slowly and thoughtfully.

Hannibal hummed, considering the proposition but his eyes were gleaming, something ferocious shifting within them. Lured by the promise of a challenging new game, a more intense flirtation with capture than he ever dared. “It’s certainly a tempting prospect. Would clean things up rather nicely. Though I admit to hesitation about giving up a piece of myself. Who do you think would be worthy of such a gift?”

Will frowned, scratching at the back of his head. “Well, I don’t think you’ll like it. He's certainly not worthy but he fits the narrative we need to create.”

Hannibal rose a brow, glancing at him over the rim of his glass as he took a luxuriate sip of his wine.

“Someone who will match the Ripper's profile. Surgical knowledge, intelligence, an appreciation for art,” Will began, trailing off as he dragged his fork through the sauce. “Someone who doesn’t really care for me and is jealous of your success, inspiring them to go to such lengths to frame us for all these horrible murders.”

Hannibal smirked, understanding flickering in his gaze. “You did say his reputation mattered more to him than his life. Is this how you’d like to seek revenge, then? Not with the blade of a knife but by framing Doctor Chilton?”

Will was unable to stop the twitch of his lips as it pulled into a grin. “Jack wants a Ripper, and he’s going to go searching until he finds him. So let’s beat him to it. Let’s give him the Ripper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the bois fine-tune their plans- drumming up a timeline, picking the (un)lucky contenders for the Ripper's final sounder, and Will might be a sloppy drunk but Hannibal's a jealous one.


	7. Inebriation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains overwhelming amounts of a dumb, besotted cannibal. He's horny on main, guys.

**Chapter Six: Inebriation**

The door slid open, groaning with the motion and ushering in a gust of crisp evening air. It was quiet out on the balcony, the neighborhood tucking into bed, the windows of the buildings on either side them, opposite them, darkened. Will glanced up from where he sat on the wicker chair as Hannibal returned, closing the door behind him, and greeted Hannibal with a wide, unrestrained grin, cheeks tinged pink from his zealous consumption of wine and the pinch of the wind.

It made something clench in his chest, like fingers closing in on his heart and giving it a firm squeeze, the thick muscle staggering in its beat.

He inhaled slowly, extending a hand out and offering Will a glass of wine, his smile flickering as he glanced at it curiously. “I thought you were cutting me off,” he asked slyly, reaching out to take the proffered drink.

“You seemed to have settled down enough,” he said simply. Though, truthfully, he was delighting in how uninhibited Will had become, the mild inebriation and ease of their growing plans pulling the weight that typically made his shoulders slouch, his brow furrowed. His eyes sparkled beneath the glow of the sconce above them, and the usual frown fixing on his lips had disappeared for the evening, the ends of his mouth flicking up in an ever-present smile. A smile that was tinted purple, wine staining the creases of his lips and he imagined they tasted like ripe cherries and vanilla.

Imagined that the wine would never taste as sweet as it would if it was shared between their lips, licked from his tongue.

“It’s sort of freeing, I guess,” Will said with a shrug, pulling Hannibal from his thoughts. He sat down in the chair beside the younger boy, swirling his own wine beneath his nose. A different bottle now, the first having been poured recklessly down Will’s throat and this one brought with it a sharper bouquet, currants and cinnamon and the bite of licorice. “Everything I was stressed about doesn’t really seem to matter anymore. A crash landing turned into a controlled descent.” He glanced at Hannibal, mirroring the swirl of the wine, nostrils flaring as he sniffed.

“There’s still a lot of work to be done, of course,” Hannibal began, shifting his weight aside as he set his wine on the small table between them and pulled a phone from his pocket, extending it out to Will. “Part of the reason I came here was to give you this. A disposable phone, I’ve already programmed it. I have one myself, it will make communication easier without having to worry about phone records.”

Will blinked owlishly at the device, hesitating only a moment before reaching out to take hold of it, thumb smoothing over the screen. “It’s a three-hour drive from here to Quantico. The moment I discover that Jack is intending to bring you in for questioning, I’ll text you. You’ll have time to dispose of it in a manner that cannot be tracked back to you,” he said, Will glancing up at him and giving a quick nod.

His lips twitched. “Is there a code word I should know?” It was a serious question, inflected with humor. Childlike delight as if in a game of make-believe; playing spies.

“Any word will be the code word,” Hannibal said, returning the mischievous grin. “I’d prefer to keep our communications verbal instead of texts if that’s alright. Less traceable records.”

Slim fingers curled over the phone, settling it in his lap as he settled the glass of wine against his lips. He blinked at his Merlot colored reflection. “I’m glad I still get to talk to you,” he said, chasing the words with a sip of his wine and swallowing the confession.

Hannibal smiled with his eyes, skin crinkling softly as they fell into amiable silence. The traffic below was an occasional disruption, like the ripple in the calm surface of water, the world stilling and quieting with the late hour of the night. The wind was a biting chill, a breeze sweeping against them and tossing Will’s curls across the crown of his head, but he was decidedly warm. Too much wine himself, a pleasant buzz filling his head and making his thoughts fluid, slipping through his fingers. He didn’t make it a habit to indulge in alcohol, preferring his senses to be sharp, ready for whatever might come his way.

A knock on the door, followed by a raised badge with credentials. Doors and floorboard creaking, a guest of his somehow finding their way out of his basement and seeking escape.

Hands gripping the handle of a knife, swinging it in an arc through the air in an act of betrayal.

Possibilities that he could forget in the moment, allowing himself to sink into the present instead of thinking ahead, considering the future and all the dangerous, surprising paths it might veer into. A luxury he had not been allowed until meeting Will, and it was quickly becoming his favorite. The most decadent of all luxuries. He was partial to his creature comforts- fine fabrics, an assortment of books, evenings spent at the opera or a symphony- yet none of them could compare, were as rich and wonderful as simply existing besides Will.

Seen so entirely, accepted so wholly by another. It was intoxicating, an endless peel of euphoric joy that thrummed in his veins. His pursuits and pleasures were such a savage and brutal thing, and it was one they could share, delight in together.

Did Will understand it? How much power he had over Hannibal, a man who so rarely found himself powerless? It was dizzying, almost frightening in its unfamiliarity. It felt a bit like falling, plummeting downward with no end in sight- neither a crushing death to the ground below nor a soft landing. Simply the sensation of a descent to something unknown.

It was thrilling and disorienting, even if the lack of control over the situation- _over himself_ \- was startling.

“Are you still going to frame Abigail?” Will asked, voice soft enough that Hannibal might have missed it if he weren’t so attuned to the body sitting beside him. Each breath like an extension of himself, heartbeat resonating with his own.

He blinked, sipping his wine as he considered the question. “Yes. You more than anyone know the importance of a contingency plan,” he said, smiling bemusedly as Will scowled, reaching a hand up and rubbing idly at his scalp.

It wouldn’t be enough to give Jack the Chesapeake Ripper, he knew. The profile had shifted, changed since Sutcliffe’s death and the sounder that followed had only further cemented the idea in his mind. That the Ripper was in love, in the worship of another.

They couldn’t just give him the Ripper, because the Ripper wasn’t all Jack was looking for anymore.

He glanced at Will, the half-lidded and dark gray eyes fixed in the distance. Trained on the sight of the river that winded across the perimeter of the city, shifting waters refracting the moonlight and starlight.

Did he see it too? When he held the photos of Sutcliffe’s tableau in his hands, did he see the reverence and adoration, nestled within the curve of ivory bones and torn flesh? A love letter written in a grave on still and mangled limbs. He wasn’t a trained profiler, but he didn’t need to be. His empathy disorder was more than adequate in flaying people alive, dissecting and seeing within them.

Like most things with Will, it was _endless_. The fascination and intrigue- the desire to study him, to have him. He wanted Will in so many different ways it seemed he would never have his fill. That he would always feel a stab of hunger at the sight of him, long for something even as he possessed it.

Or half-possessed it, he thought with a frown, recalling the sight of Will’s hands sliding across the waist of the girl he held close, lips locked together in a lingering kiss. Hands sliding up Will’s arms and entangling in his curls.

The memory brought with it an ache, a chill that stung and seeped into his veins. A possessive desire overcoming him, a wish to capture and hold Will to him. He wanted him in a way that no other had, to have him in a way that no other ever would.

What a cruel thing it was, to be presented with someone so lovely, so ideal- only to watch another have him.

It tasted more bitter than the wine he held in his hand, and he leaned sideways, reaching out across the small distance between them. His fingers brushed against the crown of Will’s head, startling him. He turned to Hannibal, blinking curiously as the fingers entwined more fully into his hair, tugging softly on the roots. He hesitated a moment before his head tilted back, neck elongating as his chin rose to the sky. He leaned into the touch, sighing as his eyes fluttered close.

“You need to cut your hair. If it gets any longer your father is going to mistake you for one of your strays,” Hannibal teased, reluctantly pulling his hand back and watching as Will scowled, blinking his eyes open.

“I should be so lucky,” Will muttered, running a hand through his curls and pulling away from Hannibal. “Sleep all day and getting fat on treats? They have it made.” He gave a quick, furtive glance in Hannibal’s direction before adding, “you like my hair.”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “I do.” He turned his gaze away, glancing into the wine glass in his hand. He thought of water scrying, the art of revelation and discerning the future through a state of inward meditation, focusing so wholly on the element before you until clouded images emerged. Second-sight it was called, insight received from something beyond the standard senses.

He had no desire to divine the future. The uncertainty of it was what made it exciting, the nebulous shadows and forms beyond him more compelling than concise and vivid lines. Some might have assumed assuredness on his part, a confidence that the life he wished to have would be within his reach- he need only take the steps to clutch it in his hand.

It was not arrogance that made the unknown thrilling, but rather faith. Not so much that some benevolent god might bestow upon him all his wants, but faith that no matter what path he was lead down would be one of his own invention- good or bad. That he held the reigns of his life and earned the future most deserving of his actions; be it a future filled with pain and hardship or one filled with pleasure and delectation. Not even divine intervention could take that from him.

Even now, his control over himself tenuous, it was still an ever-shifting, alchemical future crafted by his own hands. There was relief in that, even if it was a somber relief.

A future he deserved, yes. But perhaps not the one he wanted.

“We should probably figure out who,” Will said, pulling Hannibal from the spiraling descent of such uncharacteristically morose thoughts. Gaze pulling away from the surface of his wine- the blood-red clouds had yet to form the shape of something meaningful to him, second-sight eluding him- and fixed his attention to Will’s profile. Well memorized, committed dutifully within the pages of his sketchbook. The wide set of his jaw, broadening from the more narrowed shape of his youth. The slightly upturned tip of his nose and fanning ears often hidden behind the riot of his curls.

“Any thoughts?” he countered, raising a brow.

A pink tongue slipped between his stained lips, appetite whetted by the thought of the violence to come. The decadence of a hunt and a kill. “Well...if it’s going to be the final sounder, it has to be something grandiose. Someone with ties to the Ripper and to Chilton,” he said, turning to face Hannibal, eyes wide and bright. The pupils were large, blown in his intoxicated state and his cheeks were mottled with a blush. “I don’t know how you’d get him, but I’m sure you’d find a way.”

He tilted his head, mouth tipping upward at the praise. “Who?” he asked, though he had a suspicion- his mind already turning over the possibilities, the ways he might ensnare their first pig.

“Abel Gideon,” Will answered, shifting around in the chair so his torso was turned to Hannibal, one knee pulling into his chest and held there by clasp arms. “There’s poetic symmetry in it, I think. Chilton tried to turn him into the Ripper, and now Gideon will help us do the same to him.”

His smile was unrestrained now, face flushed and warm despite the chill of the spring air. How beautiful and enticing his mind was, so similar to his own. Appreciative of his art and the grace within the thousand bent and grotesque angles of the corpses he poses. What a privilege it was to watch it flourish, to bear witness to its stunning growth. “I agree. Difficult to get, especially since he’s escaped before, but he would make a stunning tableau. Certainly a promising start to the final sounder.”

“Can you do it?” Will asked, almost challenging.

He considered the question, humming thoughtfully. Gideon was sick, as of late. Rumors that he was sure flourished from a grain of truth. While the prison was equipped for a degree of medical care, some tests and procedures required transportation to a proper hospital that he was carted to with a degree of regularity.

Transport was the weakest link in any degree of security. A moment of opportunity he could manufacture, force into existence with a few impersonations- phone calls and concerns over previous results to warrant more tests.

“Yes,” he answered, his tone suggesting offense that Will might have suspected otherwise. That he was anything less than capable of the impossible.

Will grinned, nodding once before finishing off his glass of wine. He set it on the table with a dull thunk.

“If our goal is to make it seem as if we’re the ones being framed, it might be wise that the other two are connected to us through some means,” Hannibal began.

“Like...one of your patients?”

“Exactly,” he answered with a nod. His mind immediately conjured a familiar image, a man whose presence in his life had long since turned from entertaining to a burden. Overbearing and unfettered in his attentions, it was almost a relief to have an excuse to dispose of Franklyn in a less traditional method than the one he had been leaning towards.

And it was certainly a tantalizing thought, envisioning the man as he awoke in the basement. The room unfamiliar and cold, the face above him familiar yet devoid of its usual warmth, the mask slipping away to reveal the monster hidden beneath. He would enjoy watching the realization dawn on his face. The swift transition between enamored and frightened. His idolization of Hannibal becoming contorted, twisting with his fear and anguished pleas.

“So, the third should be someone connected to me. If only everything with Noah had happened later,” Will mumbled, a soft laugh following the statement. “Would have been perfect.”

“You know, statistically speaking, romantic partners are the most likely perpetrators of domestic homicides,” he said, watching as Will’s brow furrowed at the suggestion. “Chilton would know that, and he would use it to his advantage.”

Lips skewed into a grimace. “My girlfriend?” he said, tone thick with disgust at the idea. “No, not her. I don’t...I don’t want to. I like her.”

Hannibal frowned, jaw clenching. “It would be the smart choice.”

Will scowled, his eyes narrowed as he gave a firm shake of his head. “ _No._ Someone else.” He glanced away, the light shifting in his eyes as he chewed his lip in thought, peeling at the chapped skin. “My...my roommate, maybe? He’s an asshole, and everyone knows I hate him. It will be just as good.”

“Not just as,” Hannibal muttered, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. “But it will do.” He felt Will’s stare, the piercing prickle of his discerning eyes.

  
He thought once more of scrying. Of second-sight and how fitting of a word it was for Will. His empathy both a gift and a curse that others had to work towards, a gift of insight and perception that bordered on the mystique. He felt unnervingly raw beneath the gray eyes, unable to hide within his carefully maintained disguise.

What did Will see when he focused on the blurry lines of his future?

What did he _want_ to see form in the clouded surface?

He knew when Will finally turned away as if his gaze was a tangible thing.

Will sighed slowly, an exasperated sound. “My roommate is really rude. Ca- my girlfriend isn’t,” he said, amputating the name before he could finish it as if doing so was enough to protect her. As if Hannibal were like a fey and needed a name to wreak harm and ruination, an utterance to evoke.

He thought of blonde hair stained red, mouth cut into a jagged and too-wide smile.

“I would argue ending a relationship, even temporarily, because your partner doesn’t want to sleep with you is obscenely rude,” he said, knowing it was a cruel thing to say and reveling in the cruelty.

He could kill her, outside of the sounder. He could even go to great lengths to obscure her death as anything other than murder. Leaving Will to believe she died tragically- an act of god or misfortune.

The thought was underwhelming though. He would want Will to know. Would want Will to see and understand just as he saw and understood everything else about him. See the lengths he was willing to go, the things he was willing to do. Even if it would all be for naught. Yet another love letter that would be set aside, pushed to an unused corner of his mind where it would gather cobwebs and dust.

He didn’t quite like the idea of being set aside, ignored by the powerful sway of Will’s denial.

Will scoffed, stammering over his words as he said, “What? No, it’s not- I don’t...I _want_ to I just _can’t._ ”

He was unable to restrain the pull of his smile, glancing at Will to find his cheeks painted a red that rivaled the deep burgundy stain of his lips- parted with the realization of his words before quickly clamping shut. As if to ensure he said nothing else so mortifying.

“Oh? But I thought you said there was nothing wrong with your sexual health? Was that a lie?”

Will gave him a scathing glare, his fevered blush encroaching elsewhere- the exposed columns of his neck and the barely visible lobes of his ears turning crimson. His eyes were sharpened, heated in his annoyance and when he spoke, the words were gritted through teeth, terse. “What it is is none of your business.”

He shrugged, obscuring his delight at Will’s discomfort behind a veil of casual indifference. “I’m only trying to help. You know, my offer for how to deal with that is still on the-”

“You’re shameless, aren’t you?” Will interjected, brow quirked and eyes wide.

Hannibal blinked, the facade of innocence and ignorance a well-worn costume even if it did nothing to dissuade Will from seeing his true intent. “There’s nothing to be shameful about. You seem to be forgetting, Will, that I spent many years as a trauma surgeon. There is very little about the human body that I’m upset or surprised by,” he answered simply, finishing his glass of wine. His head felt full as if his skull was filled with cotton and his limbs were weighed down with a sluggishness that felt strange- so unaccustomed to the loosening of his restraint. Perhaps he had indulged too much for the evening- allowed his mood to sour and become unattractively maudlin.

In a rare moment of charity- it wasn't quite regret stabbing at him for his cruel prickling of Will but a readiness to move on from the conversation- he added, “It’s hard to feel shame when you’ve spent as many nights as I have performing emergency surgery to remove a foreign object from someone who got a little overzealous while searching for their prostate.”

A moment of quiet followed the admission, broken only by the distant rumble of tires on asphalt and the chirp of katydids. And then Will laughed, a bracing sound that punctuated the silence like a sharpened blade, head tipping backward as the ringing sound spilled from his lips.

“Is that an amusing thought?” he prodded, watching as Will rose a hand to swipe his knuckles against the corner of his eye where tears of laughter beaded.

“It’s a very humbling one,” he said, words strained and tapered between the residual laughter. “You could use some humbling.”

He considered remarking that Will had a habit of humbling him enough, but swallowed the words instead.

He found no nourishment in it.

~x~

“I apologize for being unable to drive you back, but I can call you a cab. I’ll cover the cost, of course, as I didn’t leave you much choice this evening,” Hannibal said, setting the last of the dishes on the mat to dry on the counter, the remnants of their dinner scrubbed clean. The hearty smell of seared meat and roasted garlic was replaced by the chemical scent of artificial lemon, antibacterial wipes that had been passed over the dirtied surfaces.

Will frowned, wiping his wet hands over his clothed thighs- though there was a perfectly suitable dishcloth _right there_ , hanging on the curved handle of the oven. “I can’t stay here?” he asked, voice softened. Mellow and sleepy now that the initial height of his buzz had passed, senses smothered and drowned in alcohol.

“Won’t your roommate be suspicious?”

He snorted. “Even if he notices I’m not there, he’ll be thrilled. Probably took advantage anyway when I didn’t show up after work and invited someone over.”

Hannibal nodded stiffly. “Very well, then. My plane leaves at eleven, so I have to leave by nine. I’ll drop you off at your car around then,” he said, brushing past Will and leaving the kitchen- extending a hand out to flick the lights off. “I’m afraid though I only packed a limited amount of clothes for myself and don’t have pajamas for you this time.”

“I’ll live,” Will answered with a grin. “Thank you.”

They moved around each other in the apartment as they prepared for bed, the overhead fan a steady undercurrent of noise. Hannibal took his time as usual in his washing up, the harsh burn of the minty mouthwash a sharp but welcome reprieve. The wine had left his mouth dry, the filth on his teeth a distracting sensation with each pass of his tongue, and brushing his teeth was less a chore than it was luxury. Even the foaming lather of the soap that he rubbed into his face felt amplified, his skin pinched with the effects of dehydration.

He changed into his bedclothes in the bathroom, compressed by the mechanical whir of the fan. His clothes were folded neatly even though they would be laundered when he returned home and he pushed open the door to the bathroom, standing in the threshold as he blinked at the sight before him.

Will sat on the bed, covers tossed aside already so he sat on the sheet, pressed against the pillows. His legs were crossed, back hunched as he scrolled lazily through his phone. He wore only his thin cotton undershirt and his boxers, skin pale and creamy beneath the golden light of the bedside table, dark hair sparse over his lean legs.

It was an enthralling sight- painfully domestic.

_Unfair._

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Will glanced up from his phone, his expression sheepish. “My phone’s been off for a while so I have to catch up on all my missed messages. My dad heard about a disappearance on campus- I think I got to him in time before he came down here to check on me, though,” he said, grinning balefully as he turned the phone off and set it in his lap.

“No, Will. I mean, why are you here? In the bed?”

The question befuddled him, and he blinked several times as he looked at the rumpled bedding pushed around him. “Um...to-to sleep?” he said after a moment.

Hannibal pursed his lips. “My apologies, Will, but when you asked to spend the night I thought you would be taking the couch.” It was a lie, of course. He had been prepared for Will to crawl into the bed as he had done the few nights they spent together.

He wasn’t as prepared for the way his chest would ache at the sight, wanting to take something that wasn’t his to take, bitterness hot in his veins with the desire to _possess_. Struck by the simple sight that all at once left his mouth dry and yearning for it to be a sight that would fill each of his evenings. Will waiting for him between pillows and pushed aside covers, half-dressed and pleasantly, unusually relaxed. 

“Oh,” Will said, frowning as he slowly stretched out his legs, sliding them to the side so his bare feet touched the floor. “I guess I just assumed. I mean, you never seemed to care before-”

He trailed off, and Hannibal took the opportunity to say, “I don’t think it would be very considerate to your girlfriend, now would it? I know how insecure young people can be in relationships, and I would hate for it to be misinterpreted.”

Will opened his mouth as if to say something, only to clamp his lips closed- pinched so tightly the strain of it made them almost white, eyes narrowed with muted indignation. He reached beside him, grabbing a pillow and holding it to his chest as if it were armor, rising from the bed with a nod. “Right, then,” he mumbled, shuffling to the door. He tossed a quick, bitten _goodnight_ over his shoulder, not waiting for Hannibal to respond as the door was snapped closed in its frame.

Hannibal waited only several stretching seconds before crossing the room and settling into bed. The empty space beside him was like a taunt and he turned his back to it, facing the darkened room. The emptiness was a resonating ache, and he was unsure which was more anguishing.

Having Will beside him, close enough to touch but unable to- not completely, not totally. Not the way he wanted, having to settle for the half-possession.

Or not having him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will: Why do you want me to kill my girlfriend so badly?  
> Hannibal, sniffling as he rips out a page in his sketchbook that’s just his and Will’s name written in hearts over and over: oh no reason.
> 
> Don't worry, Hannibal. Nothing stokes the flames of desire quite like slaughtering a bunch of people together. 
> 
> Next up: the plan comes together after a visit to Minnesota.


	8. Exsanguinate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took so long to get out. I worked fifteen days in a row and it was struggle city for a while there. Hopefully, the length makes up for it. Not the biggest fan of this chapter but after tweaking and rewriting it like seven times I just needed to move on. 
> 
> Also, WARNING. Some gore begins in this chapter, at the end. It’s honestly super tame comparatively but we are starting to tread into that torture/murder tag now. Also, Hannibal is STILL horny on main but that’s not going to change anytime soon so get used to it.

**Chapter Seven: Exsanguinate**

Hannibal awoke to a dull ache winding like a band around his head, mouth dry and sore. Mild, by all standards really. Nothing so severe that some pain reliever and nourishment wouldn’t ease. Wine had a tendency to leave profound headaches when drunken in excess, and he stifled a small smile, wondering how Will would fare when he finally awoke.

As if on impulse, he rolled to his back, a hand extending out and smoothing over cool sheets, empty and undisturbed. There was a flutter of disappointment that Will hadn’t tried to return to his bed later in the evening, slipping between the mattress and covers when he was certain Hannibal had fallen asleep.

A foolish thought, of course. Will would respect the boundaries set before him even if he didn’t like them.

He inhaled a slow breath, rising from the bed sluggishly, limbs weighted as he trudged to the restroom. It had been a hasty decision, perhaps; made from a place of resentment and jealousy that he knew to be unbecoming but was hopeless to stop. And now he awoke to a cold and quiet morning instead of to the feel of a warm body against him, legs slotted behind his own and a sweat-slicked forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.

He had only himself to blame, but it would not do to wallow in the actions he could not change. The day would not yield, halt for his ruminations and self-flagellation. It would move forward, with or without him.

The pressure in the shower was harder than he would have liked, pelts of heated water like needles pressing into his flesh. But the steam was thick and heated, a pleasurable balm to the throb of his head, diminishing with each second sat beneath the spray. It invigorated him, cleansing him of the lingering vestiges of the alcohol-sodden night and when he left the humid bathroom behind it was to settle into his usual brand of optimism.

Despite his ill-thought decision to expel Will from his bed, the night had gone better than he anticipated. Will was right- it was freeing to no longer concern himself with the trail of evidence that would lead to him like a bright, neon arrow. A tongue-in-cheek delight in knowing the world would see him, glance a peek at the monster hidden in the shadow of the man they considered a friend only for him to be able to shirk back into his costume once more. Toss the burden of his crimes onto another while still watching the procession, experiencing the horror first hand.

He was thrilled, truly, with the prospect of it all. The apprehension and disbelief that would strike Alana and Jack when he was first implicated, perhaps the trickling realization of all the meals they consumed at his table sitting at the forefront of their minds. Only for it all to be pushed aside, joining him for dinner with a renewed sense of trust of him when the Chesapeake Ripper was caught at last. A celebratory dinner as his facade shifted back into place. Will would help him prepare it, his presence at the dinner table unassuming now that they would have shared a public framing to bond them. He wondered if he would harbor the same delight, his ever-watchful gaze following the rise of forks to parting lips.

He imagined they might all laugh about it in enough time- Jack and Alana laughing that they had ever doubted their friend and had been made wary of his decadent meals.

It was a brilliant plan, an astounding one that prickled at his senses and made Will’s wonderful mind all the more compelling. There was some sorrow at having to retire his much-loved persona, a bitterness of having to bestow the crown on _Chilton_ of all people. But there was an entire lifetime spread before him; more personas to craft and art to create. Any mourning period would be brief, a funeral he would move from with vigor for the life that existed beyond it.

A rebirth from the death, a promising new life lurching forward from the ashes of the old.

He was looking forward to it, excitement thrumming in his veins.

He dressed for the day, humming to himself a nameless, unrealized tune. His headache had subdued and he was feeling bright and refreshed as he cleaned the bedroom- smoothing the lines in the blanket even if the room would be cleaned by the owner later in the day. It was impolite to toss unnecessary work on a host, even in such a rental agreement.

Will was still asleep when he closed the door to the bedroom and strode into the living room, the younger man unbothered by the light that spilled in unheeded- curtains parted and pulled aside so the golden light of morning wrapped like a shroud around the room. He was curled on his side, back to Hannibal as his face was buried within the plush back cushions of the couch. His white undershirt was pulled taut from his fitful sleep, stretched across the lithe muscles of his back, the throw blanket slipping down onto the floor.

His soft snores were an uneven melody, and when Hannibal peered over at him his eyelids were flickering with a dream, lips parted in noisy exhalations. What sort of shapes did his dreams assume? Had the evening left an indelible mark on his brain, dreams painted in the blood and carnage of the weeks to come?

Did he still have nightmares, haunted by a long-dead monster made immortal in his mind?

He was sleeping heavily- the sort of sleep someone had after partaking in one too many indulgences, a night saturated in wine and hearty foods. The sort of sleep that he would awake from still exhausted, groaning and irritable for the remainder of the day. With a furtive glance at his watch, Hannibal decided to let him sleep a little longer.

He reached down, grabbing the blanket and fluttering it over the slumbering form. He smoothed out the wrinkles, lingering longer than strictly necessary, fingertips brushing across the subtle curve of his flanks and rising over the incline of his shoulders. He tousled the curls as he pulled his hand away, lips tipping into a small smile when Will sighed in his sleep at the gentle caress.

He forced himself to step back, knowing he could easily lose himself in the soft tangle of hair, smelling horridly of some cheap two-in-one monstrosity that had not changed since he was has a teenager. It was a heinous aroma but it was decidedly _Will_ and there was something lovely about that.

He turned away, slipping into the kitchen as he considered the limited amount of groceries he brought with him and the breakfast he could make for them both.

~x~

Will sighed, rolling his head to the side, leaned against the vibrating window as Hannibal drove them back to his car. The headache he awoke to had eased a bit, abated by the pain relievers and breakfast Hannibal had prepared- a _simple_ spread he called it, but the avocado slices were delicately thin and rolled into the green petals of a rose; the fruit salad dressed in a honey-sweetened vinaigrette that softened the tartness of the berries and it was anything but simple. It was a shame that the flavors had been muted on his tongue, dry and thick so that everything tasted as if it were ash.

But each roll of the tires over an uneven dip in the road made him groan, eyes pinching closed and a palm pressing into his temple. A dull throb resonated within his skull, a pressure building within the curved bone and threatening to splinter it apart.

“There’s a reason most people don’t drink wine for the purpose of getting drunk. It’s not exactly the cleanest hangover,” Hannibal’s deep voice rumbled, warm with amusement. He glanced at Will from the periphery of his eyes before returning to the road.

“I didn’t drink _that_ much,” he croaked, voice sore and hoarse with disuse, still painfully dry. The thrum of his intoxication blurred the edges of the evening before, softening and diffusing the prickled edges of his anxiety. Intoxicated, but not as bad as he could have been. “I didn’t even start talking in an accent.”

“I was deprived,” Hannibal quipped, lips tipping upward in a grin. Then, he added in explanation, “wine has an abundance of histamines that produces a headache that is often worse than other alcohols.”

Will could only grunt in response, flicking his gaze over Hannibal. Hair combed and brushed neatly aside, dressed in a gray suit threaded with pale blue pinstripes and matching waistcoat. The shirt beneath was deep indigo, the silver paisley tie a stark brightness on the dark fabric. One of his more muted dressings and it was still unbearably _loud_ to his eyes, indenting on the soft tissue of his brain.

Dressed so refined, so unlike Will in his wrinkled clothes from yesterday, the stain of sauce stiff on his jeans. He shifted with discomfort, the difference between them a starker contrast than usual.

“You seem fine.”

Hannibal rose a brow. “Someone was kind enough to keep me in check by drinking most of the wine.”

“I hope it wasn’t too expensive,” he mumbled apologetically, cheeks warm with the thought. Drinking an entire bottle of wine was embarrassing enough. Drinking one the equivalent of several of his paychecks like it was cheap beer in a crumpled plastic cup was too much to consider.

Hannibal said nothing in response, eyes bright and gleaming with humor, catching the sunlight so the threaded colors of amber and maroon refracted like a kaleidoscope. Whatever had struck him the night before to put him in a foul mood seemed to be forgotten, the strangely sullen looks that were so uncharacteristic on his sharp and angular face gone. Replaced once more by bright eyes and lips that curved into a soft, minute smile- not quite large enough to press parentheses into his cheeks, to make creases form around his eyes; but ever-present. A permanent smile as he relished the day with all the zeal of a man who found entertainment in whatever life presented him- good or bad. Motivated on a spectrum that skewed between Machiavellian manipulations and boredom, never once settling in the center.

He was, in many ways, the happiest person Will had ever met; hedonistic and opportunistic and truly, freely himself.

Yet, his happiness had been stilted only hours earlier, before the sun rose in all its glaring, golden glory. Perhaps it was simply the effect of alcohol, making him morose and petulant in a way that mirrored Will more than it did Hannibal. His cheeks still warmed with the memory swathed in cotton, softened, and hazy with the veil of all the alcohol saturating within them. Cheeks coloring in the residual embarrassment of having been sent to the _couch_.

Perhaps he had overstepped his boundaries, overestimated the depth of Hannibal’s fondness for him. He should have known better than to assume, really. He practically invited himself over, begging to stay the night when Hannibal had offered to pay for a cab.

But he never seemed to mind before- deriding more amusement from Will sneaking into his bed than anger or indignation. There had been no amusement last night, however- lips pulling into a cruel sneer to reveal the partially crooked teeth set within his jaw, the muscles taut and straining, a sharpened glint to his eyes.

It bristled against his nerves, made Will feel as if he had done something _wrong_ but unsure of what, replaying the evening over in his mind as he twisted on the stiff cushions of the couch. He could discern nothing with certainty, the monster obscured behind the facade of a man was an enigma even to his more intuitive mind.

He was harder to read than most, requiring more acute observations and consideration of the world he constructed around him for Will to build the profile of him in his mind. It was what made his company an odd sort of comfort, the closest thing to quiet he knew in the presence of another. Hannibal had such tight control of his emotions, hiding them away behind a nearly palpable veil of exuberance that the usual cacophony of sound in Will’s mind was hushed.

Something had unraveled it though, pulled at his iron-clad restraint and made the older man waspish and it was such a bewildering experience that Will had simply left. Taking the cue to leave him be and shut the door behind him.

He glanced sidelong, gaze lingering on Hannibal’s profile. He could apologize- not entirely certain of what he was apologizing for but unable to shake the feeling that he was the reason to blame for the downward shift of the night before. Yet, the slight smile was once more affixed on his face and his good humor seemed to return, and perhaps apologizing was necessary. Maybe it was just the alcohol that put him in a foul mood and Will was overthinking it, taking the matter too personally because of the prickle of humiliation he felt when he shuffled from the bed, dejected.

With a sigh, he let his gaze slant, falling from the harsh contours of Hannibal’s face to the hands gripping the steering wheel. Tendons and bulbous veins shifting beneath the burnished gold of his skin. He was fascinated by his hands. Dexterous and talented- whether they were wrapped around a scalpel, a chef’s knife, or a blade stained with blood. Just as capable of putting a man back together as he was cutting them apart, a butcher and surgeon in equal measure. Creating art from the still forms of his victims, from the cuts of meat he took from them- a plate the canvas.

It made a twinge of guilt stir within him that Hannibal would soon have to forego his preferred medium, discard his Ripper persona because Will had _messed up_. His lips pulled into a pout and he turned his focus back onto the road stretching before them. He never liked being reminded of just how _juvenile_ he was compared to the man beside him.

It wasn’t long before they were pulling into the mostly empty parking lot, Hannibal parking once more beside Will’s Jeep. Hannibal didn’t switch the car off, instead, he slid the gear into park and let it idle as he turned to Will with a smile, one end of his mouth tipped higher than the other in a crooked line. “I believe this is your stop,” he said.

Will nodded, hesitating a moment before reaching out for the handle of the car. It always felt surreal to leave him, as if each moment spent with Hannibal was in a world separate from the one he lived in. Did it feel the same for him? The moment between being himself so openly and once more slinking back into his costume like a tangible shift?

He had always thought of Hannibal as existing behind the seams of a cleverly crafted disguise, and it was startling to realize he was the same way. His life felt a bit like a production, as if Will Graham the student, part-time worker, and Callie’s boyfriend was more a role he played than a life he lived.

But he couldn’t linger- Hannibal had a plane to catch, his own role waiting for him to perform. He pulled the latch to the door, pushing it open and stepping a leg out when Hannibal stopped him.

“Do you work tonight or tomorrow?”

He blinked at the simple question. “Um...yeah. Both nights. Closing.”

Hannibal hummed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Ah. Alright. Is Thursday night better to call you then? I’ll be with Jack investigating Hobbs’s murder today and tomorrow morning and I’m sure I’ll have some updates for you regarding it,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. Thursday is fine. I was just going to do some schoolwork,” he said with a shrug. He had almost forgotten about it, the disposable cellphone sitting in his pocket, tucked behind his actual phone. It was reassuring to know he wouldn’t be entirely caught off-guard, blinking in surprise at the sight of a gruff and stern FBI agent standing in the hallway of his dorm.

It was also reassuring to know he could talk to Hannibal without the distance between them being too great a burden. And they would have to talk.

There was a sounder to plan.

It was an invigorating thought, and his hand trembled with anticipation as he slid out of the car and closed the door behind him, reaching for the keys to his own vehicle. It was thrilling, the promise of not only a hunt and a kill sitting like dawn on the horizon, but of seeing Hannibal Lecter in action. He _knew_ of all the terrifying things he was capable of, _knew_ what he could do; but he had never seen it happening before him.

He had been more an observer than a participant when they killed Sutcliffe, allowing Will to do all the work that he had itched to do for so long. It was a gift, and he was appreciative of it. But now he was greedy and he wanted a different gift- the gift of seeing the Chesapeake Ripper in all his glory before he would be packed away like Christmas ornaments, stowed on a dusty shelf.

There was much to coordinate in the coming weeks- hunts and kills, keeping abreast of the investigation so they could synchronize the tableaux. Framing Chilton, he thought with a flickering grin.

It felt strange to leave Hannibal, settling into the driver’s seat of his car and turning the keys into the ignition. But he knew it wouldn’t be for long.

There was comfort in that thought.

~x~

“This is one for that Evil Mind’s museum of yours, Jack,” Beverly crooned, eyes wide as she stepped up into the attic space of Hobbs’s hunting cabin. Antlers affixed on the angled ceiling, covering every inch of the bared wooden walls with velvet horns. Bones curling inward like fingers, clutching at everyone who stepped within the space. “If there was any doubt that this guy was a serial killer, it’s gone now.”

Jack scowled at her, tossing a stern glare over his shoulder before resuming his perusal of the antlers. His lips parted in a soft exhalation. “We haven’t found anything yet. No evidence of any of the girls he took,” he muttered. He turned around then, focusing on Beverly with renewed interest. “Did you find anything?” 

“Well,” she began, lips pulling into a flat line. “No graves or human remains.” He visibly deflated at that, reaching a hand up and rubbing harshly at the bridge of his nose. “But I just got off the phone with the original pathologist who examined Hobbs. There was some incomplete information on the autopsy report when it was first sent over.” She paused a moment, tilting her head as she gave a slow blink. “It’s complete now.”

Hannibal twisted around at that, lowering a gloved hand from where it was tracing the curves of an arching antler. “Anything that might change the profile?” he asked.

She nodded. “There was some delay in getting it all because he’s retired now, but he’s calling his old lab to make sure they fax the formal reports to Z and Price. He didn’t go over too much of it, so I’m not sure how important it all may end up being, but he did mention one thing that stuck with him. Hobbs’s stomach contents.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Did he eat anything unusual before he was killed?”

“Yes. Himself,” Beverly answered, unable to hide the dark humor threaded in her words.

“Autocannibalism,” Hannibal said, turning his attention back to the tapered antler to hide the smile tipping his lips upward. “It’s been used a few times as a form of torture or in war.” He wasn't as surprised by the revelation as he might have been, though his curiosity prickled. Will had mentioned he tortured Hobbs before killing him, though he neglected to give details. An oversight on Hannibal's part; he should have asked for specifics even if the look Will would give him at the question would be dubious, accusatory that his interest lay in the more perverse than practical. 

Jack scoffed, lips tugging downward in a frown, thick with repulsion. “The leading theory is that he ate them. Fed them to his wife and daughter,” he began, letting his eyes slide across the room and each pointed end of an antler. No doubt thinking back to the morning spent fighting his way through the crowd of reporters, sneering and deriding Freddie Lounds under his breath for the TattleCrime article that sparked the rumors to ignite. Hannibal was almost disappointed he missed it, his own flight arriving much later and having to hear the story second-hand in whispered tones from Alana. “It explains why we haven’t found anything and he _was_ a hunter. Do you think our UNSUB knew this when he killed Hobbs, Doctor Lecter?”

“Yes,” he answered, simply. “Our killer was doling out a brand of justice when they killed Hobbs. Perhaps Hobbs confessed to his crimes and what he was doing with them after he was abducted, and the UNSUB wanted to deliver some poetic atonement.” He imagined Will, face flushed and shiny with sweat; eyes bright, wide with the surge of adrenaline that made his fingers shake as he carved out pieces of flesh. Lowered them to spit-slicked and reluctant lips and clamped a hand over his mouth until Hobbs swallowed.

It would be raw, of course. His planning was minimal and he had operated more on instinct than in the scheme of a greater design, the entirety of his work coming to him in increments instead of fully formed. Still young and cultivating himself, a clumsy act fueled in part by instinct and by borrowing things familiar to him.

Perhaps it was poetic atonement. An eye for an eye, consumption for consumption. Hobbs had killed those girls and feasted on their flesh; it was only fair he feasted on himself as well.

Or perhaps Will had developed a signature of his own- first with Sutcliffe and his greedy hands, then with Hobbs and gluttonous strips of his belly.

He supposed he would find out when they killed together in the coming weeks.

“Or maybe the UNSUB knew beforehand,” Jack mused, an index finger extended as he waggled it in the air in thought. “What are the odds that the Shrike had a hunting partner?”

“Besides Abigail?” Hannibal asked, a brow raised. “Unlikely, I would say. Too many risks associated. The more people who know such a damning secret, the more exposed you are. Some killers might enjoy that sort of game, but not Hobbs. His was a compulsion. A way of life." He paused in his profile, tilting his head curiously to the side as he added, "unless your implying Abigail to be responsible for her father’s murder?” He turned to Jack, eyes narrowed in intrigue. Watching as the suggestion settled into his mind, etched its way into his brain. He blinked once, twice at the thought, brow furrowing as if trying to untangle a riddle.

“Abigail doesn’t fit the physical profile,” Beverly interrupted, folding her arms across her chest. “She weighs what? One hundred and ten pounds? No way she’d have the physical strength to get Hobbs on that antler display.”

He considered correcting her, positing the thought that a surge of chemicals and the clever use of some items could make it possible. Considered mentioning the assistance of a third party, trilling the soil for the seeds he would plant.

Instead, he hummed in agreement. _All in good time._

It was enough that Jack had become quiet, introspective with his ruminations, slotting Abigail into the crimes like a puzzle piece that fit somewhere- he just needed to determine where. He was already suspicious of the girl, seeing her arrangement in the abductions as a malicious act on her part instead of the desperation it was. There would come a time to introduce the possibility of another, but it was not now.

“Still, we should ask Louise Hobbs if her husband had any friends. Anyone he routinely hunted with beside Abigail. Let’s finish up here and get on the road so we can interview her. I’ll grab Doctor Bloom,” he said after a moment, flicking his wrist once in Hannibal’s direction before striding across the room and toward the gaping mouth of the stairs, Hannibal following soon after.

The interview with Louise Hobbs had revealed nothing of note. The round of questions routine, nothing that Hannibal couldn’t discern for himself. He knew enough of Abigail’s nature, more than he imagined her mother did. Unheeded by the kind veil of maternal love that softened the harsh edges of one’s faults. But he sat in rapt attention regardless, fingers curling over a mug of coffee that smelled of burnt grounds and managed to drink half of it before deciding that he drank enough for it not to seem impolite.

The widow was exhausted, but cooperative, eyes dragged down by the violet-colored bags beneath her lashline, skin flushed and dry. No doubt overwhelmed by the surge of emotions, conflicting and contradictory. Renewed grief of the violent murder of her husband, his memory now sullied and made twisted. Turned from loving husband and father into a ghoul. Memories of a picturesque family curdling in her brain and becoming sinister.

Her gaze often shifted around the kitchen, never quite settling on Jack or Hannibal or even Alana as she asserted herself as the kinder and warmer one of the group. Instead, they fell to the window above the sink, the light gray and muted. The rain was pouring from the turbulent sky, pattering against the roof and rolling down the streets in sheets. It set a steady rhythm, coddling them within the symphony of the world; ever moving and ever turning despite the stillness. The world did not stop in periods of such profound grief- such a unique tragedy.

The world might have shattered to Louise Hobbs, ground to a screeching halt like the wheels of a car careening off the road, metal twisted and fragments of glass littering the ground. The air heavy with the scent of blood and oil.

But it was still whole, in the end. An assurance or condemnation that she and her family were so insignificant that they could not inspire the world to stop turning on its axis.

He used the restroom before they left to return to the hotel, sink faucet running steadily as he used a tissue to open the medicine cabinet door. He was not surprised when he was met with the sight of several orange-tinted bottles, carefully turning them to read the scripts printed on the label. Antidepressants, benzodiazepines, sleeping aids. A collection of drugs in the hopes of curing something that didn’t have a cure.

He closed the mirrored door, clipping the faucet off and tossing the tissue in the wastebasket. He exited the bathroom, thanking Louise for her time and once more apologizing for the inconvenience of the whole sordid affair before joining Jack and Alana in the car.

He would kill her before he left. Not tonight, but tomorrow evening. When he was meant to be on a flight to Baltimore but would instead be driving to Indiana.

With any hope, by the start of next week, he would have Abel Gideon sitting within his basement, the preparations for the final sounder in full swing.

~x~

The bathroom echoed with the sloshing sounds of the porcelain tub filling with water, steam rising and curling upward. It blossomed against the crystals, soluble shards of lavender-scented salts blooming with the water, the soft, floral fragrance permeating the air.

Hannibal sat on the lip of the tub, legs crossed as he patiently waited for the basin to finish filling, one foot tapping against the artificial marble floor. Keeping tempo to a song that existed only in his head, the tune drowned out by the sounds which echoed and reverberated off the tiled walls of the room.

Once it was full- accounting, of course, for the displacement of water once someone settled inside- he flipped the faucet off, cutting off the spigot so that only a few drops remained in the well. They fell to the heated surface, ripples rupturing along the water. Lowering the plastic sheath coating his arm, he curled his gloved hand towards his forearm and dipped his wrist in experimentally, testing the temperature.

An ideal bath should be hot enough to kill bacteria, adequate in sloughing off the dirt of a long day without being so hot to dry out the skin.

It was the considerate thing to do.

His suit squelched noisily as he uncrossed his legs and stood, striding into the attached bedroom. Louise Hobbs was draped across the bed, eyelids fluttering and limbs making languid pulls against the mattress. Fighting against the powerful cocktail thrumming through her veins, souring her blood and making escape an impossibility.

Nothing that would be traced to him, nothing to leave behind the tell-tale prick of a needle that would make her death something more harrowing, more monstrous. Simply too much alcohol and a reckless handful of the assorted pills found within her own medicine cabinet. Too many toxins, chemicals swarming within her- making her muscles weak and her mind a fog.

“Your bath is ready,” he intoned, his voice warm and honey-thick as he approached the bed. “My apologies, but I will have to undress you.” There was something to be said about the visual of a clothed water burial, summoning to mind the tormented and ill-fated women of literature not unlike the woman before him. Contorted into agony by the careless men in their life and finding solace in the rushing waters that would weigh down the garments of their gowns and tools of oppression. Ophelia, the Lady of Shalott.

Loving men not worthy of such a delicate gift, condemned for that very love.

But it would add undue suspicion, the poetry of the moment not quite aligning with the practicality and so he stripped her, apologizing with each discarded article of clothing for the indignity of it all. He deposited the clothing in the laundry basket before returning to the pliant form, one arm slipping beneath her knees and the other beneath her shoulders. He carried her from the bed and into the readied bath, the water a pleasant aroma and the ideal temperature. A kinder grave than most who crossed his path, and he hoped that it would ease the transition, relax her muscles and her mind even further so that the pain and slow slip into the precipice of death would be quick and muted.

That a cloud of beckoning lavender and perfectly heated water would lull her to sleep before bloodloss and a stuttering heartbeat dragged her to death.

“There’s something natural about it, don’t you agree?” he asked once she was settled in the basin, the water raised as it shifted upward. She was fully submerged except for her shoulders, one hand kept pressed against the sharp jut of her collarbone to hold her upright as he leaned to the side from his perch on the side of the tub, grabbing the hunting knife he had set on the plush bathmat below. Her head lulled toward him, a groan slipping past uncooperative lips as if trying to answer.

He smiled indulgently.

“We are first formed in the primordial waters of the womb. For the earliest moments -and arguably the most important- of our existence, we know only the amniotic fluid that protects us from all the blunt and sharp things of the world, and the steady, rhythmic beating of our mother’s heartbeats,” he began, making certain she would not slip too far down as he removed his hand from her collarbone and reached for her hand. He set the handle of the knife into her palm, his fingers overlapping with her own to curl them around in a firm grip. “In fact, newborn babies can travel safely from the waters of the womb to the waters of, say, a birthing pool without drowning because water is all they’ve ever known. It isn’t until their first breath of air that drowning becomes a threat instead of a way of life. It is more natural to us to oxygen.”

Keeping his hand poised over her own, he reached across the bath- her pale torso distorted beneath the shifting, refracting surface of the water- to grab her other hand, thumb and middle finger pinching her wrist. It was awkward, leaning over the warm and aromatic bath water, taking care to ensure the angle of the cut was correct, and fighting against the wriggling fingers beneath his grasp.

But he managed it, digging the sharpened tip of the knife into the soft flesh- just beneath the pulse point that would soon weaken, becoming thready and lethargic. He dragged it downward, splitting the skin and vein below. She gave a weak grunt in protest, trying to pull herself up and break free of his grasp, muscles trembling with the exertion.

He shushed her softly as he maneuvered the blade into the opposite hand, repeating the same motion so each arm bore identical wounds, blood slipping across the curve of her elbow.

Pinching the blade just above the hilt where it was still silver instead of rusted crimson, he set it back down on the bathmat, lowering her arms into the water. Blood thinned, dispersing, and diffusing so that within moments the water was red. Bright, pale red turning darker with each slipping second that passed between them.

He leaned back, resting one shoulder against the wall as he set a hand into the soft, ashen strands of her hand, smoothing the locks against her crown in a mimicry of a loving, soothing gesture. She made a choking sound, words gurgling with the saliva pooling in her mouth, and it took several incoherent utterances for him to understand what she was saying.

_Abigail_.

“Don’t worry, Abigail will be fine,” he assured. “She’s a strong-willed girl. A fighter. You needn’t worry about her.”

He doubted his words were placating, that even the kindest affirmations would sound like cruel lies on the tongue of the man who killed her. But he offered them all the same, instilling what scant amounts of peace into the moment he could.

She fell silent soon after, sinking into ruby-red waters.

Abigail wasn’t like her father. She was not made in the same image of Hannibal or Will. She was not a killer and though he imagined he could turn her into one it would not come from a well of joy or pleasure but of fear and desperation. It was not natural for her, not a delight she indulged in.

But it was one she accepted. One she could ignore when committed by someone she loved- someone whose love she wanted.

He could work with that.

He left the bathroom behind, the mechanical fan whirring and the bright-white light chasing away any shadows to be found in the room. In the grave with blood-red waters.

There was little time to spare. An almost eight-hour drive sitting between here and the meat processing plant in Indiana, the sealed baggies of evidence sitting in wait in the glove box of his rental car. Hair collected from a brush in a blush pink colored room with stuffed animals and band posters adorning the walls. A hunting knife from the same room, engraved with the initials _ACH_ \- a gift given from a father to his daughter in the hopes of bonding over a shared passion.

Though he was unsure of which passion Hobbs hoped to foster with the deadly gift.

It was a long drive, but he passed it easily enough. The plan was taking roots, flourishing steadily and within a few weeks' time, he would shed himself of a long-worn persona. A bittersweet thought that was softened by the promise of all the things he would gain from it. _Finally_ hunting beside Will, blood and sweat mingling on his pale skin, breath ragged in the surge of adrenaline and sheer exhilaration. Killing beside him once more, the memory of a moment so long ago- too distant for his liking, blurring where it once was sharp and concise.

It would be the end of the Ripper, a carefully built identity that he cherished but within its end would come something new. Something thrilling and beautiful, a worthy reason to rid himself of the Ripper if one ever existed.

They would create a new entity in its wake- something more fearsome and more acutely cultivated than he had ever imagined.

The relief of having caught the Chesapeake Ripper would be shortlived for poor Jack. A bigger monster loomed in the shadows, and it was ravenous with hunger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to see here; just a madly in love cannibal planning all the dates he’ll take his boyfriend on once he stops being dumb and realizes their dating after committing murder. What a romantic.
> 
> Next Up: Hannibal delivers the news to Abigail about her mother’s death. Will has a date. Hannibal gets a new patient.


	9. Singularity

**Chapter Eight: Singularity**

“My dad killed her too, I guess,” Abigail lamented, arms folded across her chest and head tilted to rest against the grated cage in front of the window. Her cheeks were flushed, lashes wet with the tears that clung to them.

Hannibal sat on the desk chair, pulled out into the room to face her, his jacket folded over his lap. He rose a brow, lowering his chin. “Your mother committed suicide, Abigail. Your father can’t be blamed for that,” he said firmly, not allowing her the convenience of blaming another. Death was always a brittle thing, one that often inspired the desire to point fingers and anger at the wrong corners.

“You know what I mean,” she answered, wiping at the tears as she turned around to meet his gaze, leaning against the window. “So, will I be allowed to go to her funeral or am I going to be locked up for that too?”

Her words were soft, meant to garner sympathy although Hannibal could see their true intent. A plea for what was happening with the investigation- to understand her place within it. _How much trouble am I in_?

He sighed, tilting his head as he glanced at her from beneath the fan of his eyelashes. “I can’t make any promises about what will happen, but I already spoke with Doctor Bloom. We’ve agreed to recommend you be given the space to grieve, and will hopefully have the sway necessary for Agent Crawford to make some allowances. Even if Doctor Chilton disagrees with our sentiment, he doesn’t work as closely with the Bureau,” he began, watching as she nodded along carefully to the words, perhaps clinging to the unspoken sentiment. He and Alana were the ones she should trust most, the ones worthy of her words and manipulations.

From three to two to eventually one, Hannibal the remaining singularity.

He gave her a small smile then, drawing her gaze to focus on the upturned lines instead of flicking unsteadily about the room. “With any hope, you will be given the privilege of mourning in the comfort of your own home, at least for a little bit.”

She inhaled slowly, nostrils widening. Her cheeks were splotchy, red forming asymmetrical circles against the white pallor of her skin, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Her tears had stifled since Hannibal first delivered the news. His suit was still damp on his shoulder from where she pressed against it, slipping into his offered embrace and bunching the expensive fabric in her fists.

Her composure had been found quickly enough, clamping the lid on her distress with admirable grace, though the residual traces of her cries still clung to her. Clumped her eyelashes, threaded the milky whites of her eyes with red.

“I don’t like Doctor Chilton,” she mumbled, tilting her chin forward so her hair fell like curtains across the sides of her face. She focused intently on the chewed nailbeds of her hand, as if unsure if it was the appropriate thing to confide in him with. “He’s an ass.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest and pulling her eyes to glance at him. “You’re not the first patient of his to share that sentiment.”

She hesitated a moment, slanting her gaze to the door of the room- closed for the privacy of her treatment. A police officer was stationed outside, drinking weak coffee from a paper cup. “I heard some of the nurses talking about him. Something about a scandal-”

“Abigail, it is untoward to discuss the therapy of others,” he began, her lips pursing at the reprimand. “The tragic mishandling of vulnerable minds is never an appropriate topic of discussion, especially as salacious gossip.”

Blue eyes narrowed at him, lips twisting curiously at the answer to her question that perhaps only created more of her own. But he ignored it, leaning to the side where his satchel was resting beside him, producing from its contents a slim device. A single knob sat at the bottom, a brass needle pointing skyward that would swing in a ticking pendulum once the knob was turned.

He set it on the desk.

“I’ve been considering what tools might be best for you, Abigail, and I was wondering if you would be open to the idea of hypnotherapy.”

She blinked owlishly, her surprise outweighing any suspicions that might have formed in his degradation of Chilton's therapies. “You want to...hypnotize me? Like a Las Vegas magician?” she said, her tone dry and dubious.

“ _Hypnotherapy,_ ” he corrected, “is a wonderful resource for dealing with profound trauma and anxieties. Often, the task of surmounting them is too great and makes therapy difficult, as it’s only natural for one to want to avoid the topic. Guiding you into a meditative state where your focus will be entirely inward will allow for more control and direct handling of such.”

She said nothing for some time, gazing at the device as if it were loaded gun. She glanced once more at the windowed door and the officer standing watch before resettling her gaze on Hannibal. “So like...how does it work? I won’t...will I just be unconscious?”

He smiled indulgently at that. “Nothing like the movies, if that is your concern. You will hear and be aware of everything I say to you, and you will remember it afterward. It isn’t magic, just science,” he said, abating her concerns with soothing tones.

She was right to be wary, though wrong to assume that the damage Hannibal could inflict would be so obvious.

She would not know she was being toyed with until it was too late- if ever at all.

She pushed herself from the window with a sharp exhalation, settling onto the bed and crossing her legs. “Alright. What have I got to lose?”

~x~

“How did Abigail take the news?” Will asked, words gritted between teeth. He sat at his desk in his dorm room, cellphone pressed against his ear as he scrolled leisurely through _TattleCrime’s_ webpage. A sensational article on the apparent suicide of the widow to a high-profile serial killer pinned to the top of the site, tactless in the way such articles by Freddie Lounds tended to be.

“ _As well as can be expected,”_ Hannibal answered, his voice curling around Will’s ear from the slotted speaker. _“I imagine the bevy of trauma she’s experiencing made it too difficult to properly come to terms with reality. It will take some time before the true grief of it all will set in.”_

Will hummed in agreement, crossing his ankles together. “Almost makes me grateful I was too young to know my mom when she died. Would have made it harder to have memories than nothing at all,” he mused, shoulders rolling in a dismissive shrug. Though his dad’s grief had been a palpable thing, lingering like a ghost in the darkened halls of their old home. Bringing with it a stab of guilt that he didn’t share the same depth of sorrow, unable to miss something he never knew but resenting the lost opportunity all the same.

“ _The price we pay for the opportunity to love is the potential to mourn. A bitter transaction, but a worthy one nonetheless,”_ Hannibal said. The words were solemn, threaded with a long-ago but not forgotten sorrow of his own and Will’s finger stilled over the trackpad of his laptop.

He had never given much thought to it, of the family that might have begot Hannibal Lecter into the world. It was a strange notion somehow, the idea that he had been a child once. That he had, at least in a biological sense, a mother and a father. What sort of parents had they been? Did they create the monster, molding him in an image that reflected themselves?

Or did Hannibal create himself, an identity separate from the one imposed on him?

He tried to imagine the doctor as a child, rounded cherub cheeks softening the harsh angles of his face and skin smoothed of its creases. Was he as happy then as he was now, unabashed and in a state of perpetual entertainment? Taking apart and experimenting on woodland creatures the way he would his victims in the future? The way other children might take apart their toys to see the mechanics beneath the thick plastic shell? Or was he more the precocious sort, fighting against the shadowy parts of him that felt like self-loathing until he surrendered?

Before Will could think better of it, he found himself asking aloud, “what about you? Your parents, I mean?”

There was a moment of silence shared between them before Hannibal spoke, his tone muted. _“They died when I was very young, leaving me and my younger sister to spend many years in an orphanage. Eventually, I came to live with some extended family until I was able to pursue my studies. My uncle is still alive, though his wife has since passed.”_

He leaned back in his chair, frowning at the words, so carefully chosen. _I,_ not _we_. From two whittled down into one. Words that encompassed a story he was certain the older man would rather not get into at the present. It was a frighteningly human concept that Hannibal might know such intense tragedies, such grief that it still clutched at him now, strangling him in its icy clasp.

He wondered if Hannibal killed his sister before quickly dismissing the thought. It didn’t fit right within the confines of his vision of the man, nebulous though it was. He was a killer, but that did not make him a brute unable to feel and protect those he cared for.

And he had simply failed to protect his sister he realized with a frown, licking his lips and scuffing his feet across the floor. He shifted with discomfort, uncertain of what to say, and knowing that any platitudes he might offer would feel insincere- the polite condolences one gave when it was expected of them.

He chose, perhaps too quickly, too awkwardly, to simply change the subject. “That awful writer seems to think Louise Hobbs was in on it,” he said, wincing at his own social incompetence before barreling forward with his derailed conversation. Better to commit, he supposed. “That they were a family of killers and cannibals and she killed herself before the witch hunt could get to her.”

If Hannibal was offended by the less than smooth transition, he didn’t show it; his words once more sloping and warm with humor as he said, _“_ _Have you been r_ _eading TattleCrime lately? I was under the impression you didn’t have much time to allot for current events.”_

He snorted. “Loads of good that did me. I guess there’s a reason so many killers insert themselves into the investigation. It’s always good to know how close they are.”

“ _Or, conversely, entertaining to see how far they are,”_ Hannibal retorted. He hummed softly, the nose a gentle crackle against Will’s ear- not unlike the purr of a content cat- as he added, _“Her death has put a slight halt in the investigation. Lounds’s claims are completely unfounded, as usual, but it is an angle they’re considering before closing the possibility entirely. Likewise, Abigail will be given time to attend the funeral, and Jack- ever opportunistic- will be bringing her home to see if she might recall or reveal something of note.”_

Will nodded, the motion coming to an abrupt end when he realized- foolishly- that Hannibal couldn’t see him. “What does that mean for me?”

“ _More time,”_ he said. _“I imagine it won’t be until a week or so before the incriminating list finds its way to Jack, and from there, a few days to determine who fits the profile. The events in Minnesota will delay all this further by several more days.”_ He paused, briefly, and Will imagined it was for dramatic effect, a theatrical flourish of his grand reveal. _“Add in Abel Gideon’s disappearance next week, and poor Jack won’t know which killer to direct his focus on.”_

Will’s brows rose, disappearing into the curling ends of his hair. “Next week? I didn’t know you were planning for so soon,” he said, eyes slanting to the empty bed beside him, blankets tossed aside and rumpled, sheets untucked from the corners. His roommate was- _thankfully_ \- at work for the evening, a small sliver of rare privacy found in the shared room that felt more borrowed than half-his.

He was prepared to kill him- a cruel part of him delighting in the anticipation of such, retribution for too many grievances, his own and witnessed- but he wasn’t ready for it to be so soon, knowing the pillars of his life would come crumbling down in only a few weeks time and wanting to wring out as much calm from it while he could. An eerie stillness before the storm.

“ _I imagine Doctor Gideon would be quite the conversationalist. It’s my intent to host him for some time,”_ he answered, the worlds cloyingly saccharine. Demure in his preferred way of speaking as if each half-confession was a shared joke that only those deserving of it would understand.

Will sneered, slumping forward so his back hunched unattractively, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he continued to scroll through the site. “It’s not enough to kill and eat him, you’re going to subject him to your company too? Isn’t the physical torture enough?” he asked, somewhat playful if a descriptor could be attributed to the topic of such violence.

There was the crisp, distinct crackling of laughter pressing against his ear. _“Most would consider my loquaciousness a gift, Will._ You _seem to enjoy my company well enough,”_ he parried, almost accusatory despite the prickling warmth of the words.

“Glutton for punishment,” Will muttered in his defense, but the words were not barbed the way he wanted them to be. Mellowed almost, something he failed to control seeping into them. His own fondness, he imagined; not a mirror of the fondness Hannibal had for him but the one that was conceived and bred in his own mind.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Will asked suddenly, the softly spoken question pulling with it the thrum of dread, anxiety unspooling within his gut. He didn’t doubt Hannibal’s ability to contort reality to his whim, to set a stage as though dressing for a production, consumed by an audience too distracted by the flashy trappings to see the sleight of hand. But fear rarely concerned itself with logic, with the confidence one had that everything had been tailored and prepared perfectly.

Hannibal didn’t hesitate to respond. _“It will.”_

Will gave a moue in response, eyes narrowing in his periphery to the phone held in his palm, warm against his skin. “But if it _doesn’t_? You’re always touting the importance of a contingency plan, don’t tell me now is the one time you haven’t readied one.”

“ _Of course I have one,”_ he said, miffed, tone bristling at the insinuation that he was anything less than prepared. _“Plan B is your Plan A.”_

Will blinked. “Running?”

“ _Yes. To Europe, first. Canada would be unwise, as its close borders would make it suspect and with enough negotiation, the FBI might be able to build enough of a rapport to assist in a joint investigation and extraction plan. Europe, however, is far enough away that they would waste valuable time assuming not having passports would hinder us. Not to mention, it is made of a great many countries, each with their own governing body and bureaucratic tape to cut through in order to make legal recourse difficult without the help of Interpol. But as heinous as one might decry our crimes of being, the fact remains that Interpol has bigger fish to fry. Human trafficking, terrorism, and cybercrimes tend to take precedence over two fugitives with the occasional dalliances into murder,”_ Hannibal said, and Will nearly scoffed at the casual effect of the words. As though he were discussing his menu for the evening and not the possibility of fleeing the country, a trail paved in blood and mutilated flesh in their wake.

_Of course, he had it planned down to the letter._

It was foolish of him to suspect anything else.

“So, what? We just jump from country to country until we get caught?” He paused, adding a second later, “or killed?” _Whichever came first._

“ _If we’re wise and careful, we could live for some time, peacefully. It isn’t as if we would be living in squalor or on the fringes of society. I assure you, your quality of life would not be impeded.”_

Will’s lips pulled into a smile before he could school the gesture into a frown. “I think you’re the one who's concerned with the quality of life. I would get along just fine _living on the fringes of society._ ”

“ _Perhaps. A compromise would have to be made then. You can live in a cabin and be the local witch that invites lore to be fabricated and steals the neighborhood dogs, and on occasion, I will lure you out of hiding to attend something that will require you to bathe,”_ he teased, and Will clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the laughter that erupted at the words. The charming visual painted in his obvious derision of Will’s social habits.

“Fine, but if it contains the word _gala_ in the event title, I’ll knock you out and drag you to the steps of the FBI myself.” His words were spiked in humor, his dread from only moments earlier all but forgotten. Ease and relief settling into the marrow of his bones that Hannibal didn’t seem to harbor the same uncertainty that Will did about whether or not they would part, forced to endure the world alone. That if nothing else, there was a promise of _we_ , and he thought once more of Hannibal’s careful wording. From _we_ to _I_ and the somberness that came with the singularity.

It almost made the thought of living a dual life- adopting an identity not his own and ever wary that his face might be recognized from circulated photos- seem _pleasant_.

“ _Perish the thought,”_ Hannibal mused, dragging Will away from the thoughts that were quickly spiraling, feeling like nourishment in a way that seemed unfamiliar. Strange. _“With all due respect Will, your manners are far too atrocious for such a formal event. I find it oddly endearing, but I doubt any potential future cohorts would be so inclined. I was thinking something quieter, of course. Less public. More along the lines of restaurants-”_

“Restaurants? I thought you had other ways of sampling the local cuisine,” Will said, shutting his computer down and alleviating the ache in his head created by the too-red banner of _TattleCrimes_ webpage.

Hannibal ignored him, voice rising in volume to talk over Will as he continued, _“Museums, of course, are always a highlight when traveling. I know you’ve expressed distaste for the theater, but we could remedy your discomfort by purchasing a private balcony to view a production from. You might get to see Carmen_ _yet_ _\- mayhaps even in its country of creation. Or would you rather Spain, so as to fully immerse yourself in the setting?”_

Will didn’t answer, the grin that had been stretching across his face slipping, smoothing the lines of his skin as his jaw slackened. The images that Hannibal’s words called to mind were startlingly clear; vivid and concise and shadowed by rich, warm darkness. Intimacy to the promise of them that all at once struck Will, resonated within him like the twine of a tuning fork.

It sounded less like Hannibal was planning for a life rebuilt after a collapse; an attempt to piece together something that had been shattered and live with it for as long as it would survive the tension of use.

It sounded more like trysts, something wistful and…

Well, _romantic_.

Not the description of a half-lived life that would have to be good enough as it was all that was left, but the description of a courtship.

_Dating_ , he thought, cheeks coloring at the crisp visions of restaurants, candlelit dinners shared in the sort of place that came with fabric napkins and a prix-fixe menu. Theaters and museums resting in the skyline of a dusk painted sky, like obelisks piercing the clouds and the slim crescent of a moon hanging low in the darkening horizon. _Private balconies_ to view ballets and operas in, all so that Will could ease into the cushioned velvet seat and let his eyes fall on the pirouetting dancers, arms extended like wings as if they might take off and fly away at any moment.

Distantly, he was aware that his prolonged silence had resulted in his name being called, rising in an upward inflection as Hannibal attempted to draw him back down. To tether him into the moment but he was unable to let it ground him. Unable to respond, mouth snapping closed and pinching into a tight line.

He was overthinking it, he told himself. It was a vain concept, flourishing in a rarely tilled field.

Surely he was seeing something that did not exist, perverting a kind gesture extended in a life that probably wouldn’t even come to be.

He tried to stop the downward drag of his thoughts, pull them back with reasoning and pragmatism but he was unable to do so, his own mind countering his arguments. As though he were fragments, shouting at himself and uncertain of which deviation was the correct one.

Yet, the more the thought sat in the folds of his brain, the more it festered and rotted in the soft tissues- the more it felt…

Not right, that wasn’t the word he was looking for. He doubted there was a word for it, the word that defined the shape of something being filled wholly and perfectly in an undeniable way. A way that made sense, that fitted in as if the corners and the holes were made in anticipation of a grander design.

He knew Hannibal was fond of him- whether it was of him personally or just the role he filled, a companion to be seen by and to see. He knew that with it came an amount of reverence, of adoration of someone he might view as an equal where once he saw himself alone- _a singularity_.

A sort of love, one of the thousands of different variations of it that existed- each one fulfilling a different need, nourishing a different hunger.

He knew all of this, yet he hadn’t considered the seemingly delusional idea that Hannibal might not simply love him but was _in_ love with him.

A very specific sort of love that brought with it very specific images. Soft caresses and longing gazes; vows spoken in hushed whispers on kiss-swollen lips. Evenings spent in the embrace and company of the other, at restaurant tables and private balconies as music swelled and coddled them from the world and-

_Fuck_.

His swallow was harsh, a dry and painful notion that made an audible gulp in the empty room, the voice pressed against his ear having since gone quiet. Maybe Hannibal understood the reason for Will’s abrupt silence- understood the cacophony of thoughts that made discordant and grating sounds within the confines of his skull. Understood that Will was plummeting, his stomach rising to his throat with the sudden realization that was becoming bolder, more clear in his mind.

He thought once more of caresses and Hannibal’s fingers entwining in his hair. Of the humiliation at having been _pushed to the couch_ and the cruel words that had preceded it. Pointed in resentment and a desire to hurt and _jealousy_.

He had suggested killing his girlfriend and somehow the thought was more insidious now when painted in such an unflattering shade of green. As if Will had broken a vow he had never made by dating, by allowing someone else into his life that wasn’t Hannibal Lecter and there was a flicker of indignation.

Anger at the sense of _ownership_ Hannibal felt entitled to.

A part of him wondered if Hannibal _hoped_ the plan would fail. That it would be the opportunity he needed to pluck Will from the world and pin him like a butterfly in a frame. Suspended in glass and kept from others, so Hannibal and Hannibal alone could see him, hold him in his hands. An unfair consideration, he knew, but he was never the best at controlling the tailspin of emotions when they were so volatile.

“ _Will,”_ Hannibal said again, the question in the name gone now that seconds- minutes?- had eclipsed between them.

Will exhaled a slow breath, lungs deflating and withered. “Yes?”

There was a pause as if Hannibal hadn’t expected Will to respond and was left to haphazardly consider his next words. _“Did I say something to offend you?”_

“No,” he answered, and he supposed, in a way, that it was the truth. Will had no one but himself to blame for the tightening of his chest, the sparking ignition of his nerves as he clenched the fingers of his free hand into a fist- sinews and muscles rippling beneath his flesh. All Hannibal did was answer the questions Will asked of him- truthfully, and he imagined that his answers would always be truthful. Even if he asked the one that sat poised on his tongue now, dissolving into a bitter film.

Hannibal would answer shamelessly and without repose, and it was that reason that Will chose to swallow it, to let it churn uneasily in his stomach.

He didn’t want the answer.

His mind was tangled enough, twisted into knots of his own making and the beginnings of a headache only made the matter worse. He clenched his eyes shut, pressed his knuckles against his brow to alleviate some of the pressure.

He _growled_ when a bright noise bubbled into the stillness, like nails against a chalkboard, and he cast a furtive glance to his cellphone- _his_ , not the disposable one hot like a grenade in his hands- sitting on his made bed. The screen was illuminated, and though he could not see the name of the caller, only two people ever called him.

He spoke with his dad an hour earlier, and it was Thursday- quickly turning into evening.

“I have to go,” he said, his tone admirably measured despite the torrent of thoughts pulling him apart. Too many to decipher, to untangle into neat and coherent threads. He blinked, the spiteful words leaving his mouth before he could stop them as he added, “I have a date.”

A beat passed, and then: _“Well,_ _it would be rude to keep Calista waiting now wouldn’t it? Have a good time,”_ Hannibal said, his tone polite and unassuming to someone who didn’t recognize the undercurrent slinking into the syllables. Sharpening the vowels and grinding the consonants. The threat that blossomed within the syntax and Will clenched his jaw.

_He was certain he never said her name to him_.

“Hannibal,” he said, his voice lower, roughened in a threat of his own. Hackles raised to reveal the sharpened teeth he wondered if the older man sometimes forgot he possessed.

“ _Good night, Will. I’ll speak with you soon,”_ he said, the loftiness returning to him. Exuberant, perhaps, at having prodded at Will enough to make the monster shifting within his chest stir. The phone clipped off shortly after, and Will let his hand fall to his lap, the screen reflecting his face back to him in its black mirror.

He had always known Hannibal to be dangerous- that any association with the man was combustible at best, gunpowder and pressurized gases waiting for the right provocation to detonate. Friction giving way to destruction.

He had never considered the danger of his affections- not just fondness, not a simple familiarity and comfort within that familiarity. But romantic attentions made vicious, ferocious.

It was another tumultuous thought cluttering up his brain, and he tried to shove them away, reaching for the phone that had since fallen silent. _One Missed Call_ was emblazoned across the screen.

Hannibal wasn’t planning to kill Callie- he wouldn’t have implied as much if that was his intent. Will knew him well enough to understand the layered meanings to his carefully chosen words that any threat was simply a taunt.

The real danger was in the things he didn’t say, kept behind clenched teeth.

Perhaps the genuine ploy in the threat was to prod at Will, force him to ask the question he refused to give voice to and acknowledge the revelation that inflamed his senses.

Will wouldn’t give him the satisfaction- couldn’t even summon the strength or fortitude necessary to continue down the winding trail of his thoughts.

He unlocked his phone, sending a quick message to Callie that he was on his way as he stood from the desk and shrugged on a thin jacket. For once, he was eager to disappear into the costume. To slip into the role he played.

It was quieter there.

~x~

It was raining in Baltimore, the rhythmic pattering of it beating against the large windows of Hannibal’s office. The curtains were drawn back so he could see the water as it sloshed against the glass, dragging downwards down the pane and obscuring the world from view. The office opposite his own was merely a blur of red bricks, the clouds darkening as the hidden sun dipped slowly under the horizon.

He had no more appointments, but he lingered in the office regardless, his tablet flipped open on the desk before him as he leisurely scrolled through the social media profile with detached interest. _Calista Novak_ was easy enough to find- he knew the sound her name began with when Will was too careless to stop himself from uttering it in time, and she interacted enough with the university’s social media pages. The short bob of blonde hair- dyed, mismatching the brown arch of her eyebrows- had drawn his attention and her second photo was all the confirmation he needed.

Will was in the photo, hair curling over the brim of his hat, shadows crossed over the half of his face not painted golden by the sun. His head was angled as if leaning in for the photo, the crown of his head pressing against Calista’s temple and he wore a shy, muted smile. Lips a shade too pink to be a natural flush and matching the feathered lipstick painted on her mouth.

The photo had twenty-two likes, several comments filling the space beside it. Round, yellow-faced emojis with hearts fluttering around them; declarations of how _cute_ the pair was.

He flipped through the rest of her gallery, finding nothing of remarkable intrigue. The standard photos plastered across the profiles of most people; smiling faces huddled together for staged moments of delight, filtered images of food from a night spent at a bar or restaurant. There was a particularly atrocious one of a large milkshake, glass rim coated in frosting and sprinkles, a _slice of cake_ balanced on top of it.

Will was in the background, though he was blurred, the filter sharpening the lines and colors of the foreground while smoothing the edges of everything else. Despite the heavy editing, his wide grin was unmistakable, cheeks colored red in the rosy glow of alcohol.

It was startling, the sort of information someone felt secure in posting across the pages of the internet, broadcasting themselves for all the world. Dividing and segmenting their lives in the bite-sized fragments of hashtags and witty captions. Concentrating and distilling themselves into the bare building blocks of their identity.

She was a vegetarian, the tag appearing beside each filtered image of desserts and pasta dishes. Enrolled as a PreVet student- perhaps even sharing a few classes with Will- and loved all animals but had a particular affinity for snakes, the thumbnail-sized image she chose best to represent her featuring a large snake that winded across her shoulders. She was raised on a farm, indicated by the occasional childhood photo, her cheeks rounded and full in youth- jean overalls and tall rubber boots caked in dirt as she posed alongside a cow- held a wriggling piglet in her hands.

He could ostensibly see why Will was drawn to her, so many similar facets of themselves found in the other. Not as if it would matter, in the end.

He had no intention of killing her, and he was certain Will understood that even if he felt the need to growl Hannibal’s name in warning. But he wouldn’t have to kill her to know that she would soon disappear.

There weren’t many young women who would remain with their partner once they were accused of the sort of things Will would be accused of, even if he was found innocent. It would be an overwhelming trial of even the most loyal partnerships, solidified over years and decades of trust and love.

A semester-long college romance would be reduced to ash at the first rumor of his arrest, regardless of what a _cute_ pair they made.

It was, somehow, a more satisfying thought than simply killing her.

The thought, however, was shattered by an abrupt knock on his door, and he glanced at it with narrowed eyes, lowering the tablet. His office hours were still- technically- in effect, even if this block of time on Thursday evening had long since sat empty, purposefully skipped over as he penned names into his schedule book. Filled by a ghost that he never disturbed, and though he would remain in the office until the end of the hour, he wasn’t expecting any patients.

It wasn’t Alana or Jack- both familiar enough with him by now to stop by his home unannounced before his office and still tucked away in Minnesota until tomorrow evening.

He flipped the leather cover over the tablet, tucking it into a drawer as he rose from his chair. The knock sounded again- firmer this time, slower with barely concealed impatience and his lips pursed. “One moment please,” he called out, straightening the lapels of his jacket before striding across the room.

The tapered beginning of yet another knock was cut short as he swung the door open, blinking in the sight before him with curious surprise that swiftly gave way to something else.

_Excitement._

“Hello, Mister Brown,” he said- his tone cordial and professional as Matthew lowered his fist to his side, lips twisting into his all-too-familiar crooked grin. “Congratulations on your recent discharge from the hospital are in order, I assume?”

He nodded, eyes sparkling with poorly restrained delight. “Thank you. Part of the terms of my release was to attend mandatory therapy sessions,” he began, licking his lips as he drawled out and tasted each word that left his tongue. “They gave me a list of referrals, but I thought I’d see if you were accepting new patients first. After all, you did such a great job _curing Will_.”

His beady eyes glanced over Hannibal’s shoulder and into the room behind him, the office that was obstructed by his frame filling the door.

_Stupid, foolish, arrogant boy_ Hannibal thought, the ends of his mouth tipping upward into a smile. He pushed the door open, stepping back once and then to the side to grant Matthew entrance in the space.

He accepted the unspoken invitation, hands slinking into his pockets as he moved forward, head tipped back to examine the office. As if he might find something incriminating, some display that the man he stupidly stood alone with was the infamous killer that would soon capture headlines.

He seemed disappointed when he looked back to Hannibal, a hand reaching out and thumping against the rungs of the ladder. So different from the way Will stalked the office, fingers delicately brushing across each available surface as if committing the textures to memory.

Matthew’s touch was territorial, staking a claim to them.

“As it happens, I have space in my appointment book for a new patient,” Hannibal said, striding towards his desk. The scalpel was set to the right of his arrangement, besides the assorted pencils and charcoal and the leather-bound book. A precaution he hoped to not need just yet but was grateful to have it ready. “Though I believe it might qualify as a conflict of interest considering our history.”

An out, maybe. An opportunity for Matthew to rethink the actions that lead him here and turn around. A charitable notion that Hannibal didn’t often extend but he did at this moment, letting Matthew determine his fate even if he mistakenly thought he was smart enough to outmaneuver it. To reconsider his haphazard idea to glean whatever it was he hoped to glean from Hannibal before attempting to kill him as he once promised.

Matthew scoffed, raising his chin in challenge. “I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse to tell people. You’re good at that,” he said.

Hannibal flipped his appointment book open to the marked page, bringing the nib of his pen to the paper. “Very well. Let’s get you scheduled.”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at Will, rubbing his brain cells together. And Matthew doing the exact opposite, oops.
> 
> Meanwhile, Hannibal breaks the cardinal rule of having a crush on someone in a relationship: DON'T LOOK AT SOCIAL MEDIA. It just leads to hurt feelings dummy. 
> 
> Next up: I’m sure there are healthy ways to cope with the knowledge that your former therapist- a cannibalistic serial killer with a penchant for mutilation- is in love with you. Will does not find the healthy ones though.


	10. Subterfuge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains some smut, though unfortunately, not the one we want so I tried not to make it crazy descriptive so I ain’t wasting y’all’s time. BUT! If it’s any consolation, the next time we get some smut it WILL be the one we want. And there's plenty of it. Of the scenes I've written so far, it's about 20,000+ words of smut. I'm running out of euphemisms for the word penis, send help.

**Chapter Nine: Subterfuge**

The room was dark, save only for the flickering light of the television set, casting a tinted glow into the shadows that shimmered like the flames of a fire. The light and colors blinked away quickly with each scene change in the movie Callie had put on- a modern sort of _whodunnit_ with sharp witticisms and crude but entertaining caricatures. Though he hardly paid much attention to it, his mind detached from the moment, too cluttered with thoughts to process the evolving plot or even the feel of her soft body pressed against his side as they stretched out together on the bed.

As hard as he tried to push the ideas that sprung and flourished in his mind away, he was unable to, circling around the topic like blood washed down the drain. He thought of the five stages of grief, wondering if it was a model meant only for those experiencing a loss or if it could apply in the bizarre situation he found himself in, the reality becoming less deniable the more he thought on it- and he couldn’t stop thinking on it.

_Hannibal was in love with him._

Or, at least, _his_ version of love- whatever that may look like. Covetous and possessive; cruel and wicked; selfish and unkind. He was uncertain in which way his facsimile of such a thing would manifest but he doubted it would be any less pointed and jagged than a shard of glass. Cutting and eviscerating him until there was nothing left.

It was a terrifying prospect, a danger he knew the man possessed but was now made more fearsome- a grander behemoth in light of such intentions. Would his jealousy inspire cruelty? Would any relationship Will found himself stumbling into come to a bitter, blood-soaked end because Hannibal felt jilted, spurned by Will’s own search for romance and happiness? Would Hannibal threaten and impose himself in all of his pursuits until Will simply gave up, each of them alone together and Hannibal content enough with the arrangement because at least no one else would have Will the way he wanted them?

It painted a future that wasn’t entirely foreign to him- he often envisioned his life as a period of quiet, solemn nights, spent listening to the chirp of cicadas and claws scraping against the floor. Lonely, perhaps. Some might even say pathetic but he made peace with the idea.

He wasn’t bitter about the thought of it; he was bitter about it being his only choice because Hannibal would ensure no one but himself be allowed access to Will.

The thought burned within him, sparked and ignited his anger only for it to come to an abrupt end when he realized it wasn’t fair to impose such speculation on him. After all, he was certain Hannibal had no real plans to kill Callie, even if he wanted to. And he had been respectful enough to give Will space when he needed it- space to separate himself from the tangled threads that the two of them had become in his mind, unable to discern who was who in the traitorous clamor of his brain.

Which, of course, only pulled more questions forward, brow furrowed in thought as he perused his memory for signs he might have overlooked: _how long?_

When did the love of having a like mind turn into something else? Something more intimate?

Was it even truly love, or was it superficial? Will a placeholder, the object of his affections because he held a very specific role held by no other? Was it a matter of convenience? A misappropriation of his feelings?

Will was, by all accounts, _safe_. He already knew what Hannibal was- knew the darkest and most preserved facets of his identity and not only accepted them but shared them as well. The monsters hidden within them were so similar that Hannibal could be vulnerable to them without fear of recourse. And wasn’t that what love was, in the end? No secrets spared, no shadows left untouched?

Perhaps he was simply confusing the two, mistaking the opportunity to be known for the opportunity of romance. Perhaps it was a temporary love, a fancy that would pass when the novelty of having someone see him wore off. When the luster and sheen of the companionship would fade and rust, revealing Will and Will alone wholly beneath the shiny packaging.

After all, he was rather unremarkable. He didn’t pretend to know what sort of people Hannibal might find himself attracted to, but the thought of him being attracted- in any sense of the word- to Will Graham was _laughable._

Will, whose scratchy clothes- pulled from the hangers of Wal-Mart and made of a cheap blend of synthetic fabrics- were constantly layered in a thick coating of dog hair, slicked to his skin by a perpetual sheen of sweat. Whose hair was unruly, more by design than the actual nature of his curls, finding the tangled locks a preferable curtain to the combed curls he rarely bothered with. Hands calloused from the work he did back home with his dad, grease underneath his fingernails.

It was a sharp contrast, a clear dichotomy to Hannibal. Pressed and expensive designer suits- Will still fretted over the clothes loaned to him a week ago, knowing it was impolite to return clothes unwashed but unable to afford the cost of dry cleaning. The man was grace and eloquence personified, his home a gallery, a love letter to his appreciation for all things beautiful and luxurious.

Where did Will fit into that _appreciation_? Awkward and surly, unrefined and nothing like the masterpieces adorning Hannibal’s wall. He felt less like one of his expensive ornaments, and more like a cheap tchotchke, chipped and purchased as a gag gift more than for any intrinsic value or beauty.

He wasn’t sure of how to feel about the realization; most might feel flattered but he veered closer to terrified, his anxiety a sharp and twisting thing in him. He rarely felt flattered at the attention of another, finding the situation too conflicting and stressful. And that was with people far less intimidating than _Hannibal Lecter._

He never knew which feelings were his own or others, his brain a traitor- adopting the thoughts and personas of everyone else and shrinking Will. A secondary character- the deuteragonist of his own mind.

He wasn’t even truly certain if he was straight or gay or something in between, something so personal and so natural having never been examined. Never scrutinized the way he might have scrutinized if it didn’t sit too close to something he preferred to never think of again. Sex and sexuality were undeniably different, yet in his mind, the wires were crossed and he couldn’t uncross them.

His experience was limited- abysmal, in terms of success rate. Matthew had been persistent, and Will eventually grew tired of batting his exploratory hands away, giving in to the touches he rarely reciprocated unless Matthew first plied him with drugs. And he was barely present for those instances, sinking into his thoughts and letting his body operate on something trained and pathetic. Though his performance had never failed then; when he could still strip himself away from the sensations lighting his nerves on fire and telling him to panic.

The few dalliances since had all been with women, though his mind was too loud, too clamorous to see it through. He _wanted_ to become intimate with them- or at least he thought he did. It was always hard to tell whose arousal flooded his veins.

It had a tendency to...complicate things.

He startled from his thoughts when Callie rose, reaching forward with the remote and pausing the movie. She twisted on her side to face him, brow furrowed. “You’re not even watching it, are you?”

He considered lying, but the truth fell too easily from his tongue. “Sorry. I just...have a lot on my mind.”

She hummed softly, reaching one hand up to tousle his curls idly. He enjoyed the touch, the soft and soothing sensation of the gentle tug on his scalp, but he shook his head, leaning to the side so that her fingers fell to the nape of his neck. Hannibal seemed to enjoy touching his hair as well, and it was too jarring of a thought to consider at the moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He bit back a snort, managing to clamp down on the sound before it could leave his lips. It was, if nothing else, a comical thought- envisioning such a scenario if he were to divulge his secrets and make her privy to the thoughts that made a cacophony in his head. _I have this former therapist- oh, I used to be in therapy for violent fantasies, I didn’t mention that?- anyway, at first, I thought we were close because we killed and ate a guy together once and I’m realizing now he might be in love with me. Any advice for that one?_

A truly bizarre admission and she would undoubtedly think it was a joke, even is she didn’t understand the punchline, and the premise made her shift with discomfort. There was also, of course, the fact that Hannibal was considerably older than him as well- older even than his dad he thought, if only by a few years- but that facet seemed so benign when leveled against everything else. A superfluous piece of information that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of it all.

_Age might just be a number, but so was a body count,_ he mused, aware that his thoughts were now dangerously teetering on the hysterical.

“It’s nothing. Just...school work and...some problems with Chris,” he lied, rubbing at his eyes as if exhausted by the very thought of his roommate.

“That guy’s a dick, I don’t know how you put up with him. You know Olivia tried to tell me that he told her you were cheating on me,” she began, eyes rolling sharply as she shook her head at the thought. “I guess he heard about our fight at the party and told her you didn’t come back to the room so you must have been with someone else.”

Will blinked, a slow movement. “He is a dick,” he agreed, his tone exasperated and annoyed as he reached over to the bedside table where his drink had been set. A glass of Jack and Coke, condensation creating a wet film beneath his palm. The ice had melted, watering down the beverage but he tossed it back, the burn of the whiskey milder now that it had been diluted.

_Shit._

“I went to the library. Then I slept in my car because sometimes he locks me out when he has girls over,” he said, adding, “and it wasn’t Olivia that was over that night, for the record.”

Callie tossed her head back in a laugh, swatting Will’s chest. “Ooh. Who was?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know her name. But she’s in one of your classes. Molecular Biology. Red hair, freckles?”

She gasped, eyes widening. “Oh, Melissa! Aw, I always thought she had better taste,” she said, her words solemn. “You know, they _still_ don’t know where Noah is?”

He creased his brow, lips pulling into a frown. “Really? It’s been like a week though, right?”

She nodded, hair bobbing with the motion. “Yep. I don’t know how true it is, but I heard that a few police officers might come to campus tomorrow, ask some of us who went to the party if we saw anything since that’s the last place anyone’s seen him at.”

_Shit._

He made a motion to reach for his glass, only to remember he had already tossed the rest of it back moments earlier, the thrum of the alcohol in his veins an adequate but not quite potent enough numbness. There was a part of him, a reasonable part of his brain, not quite silenced in the saturation of whiskey, that told him to be more aware of this vice. The few clipped memories from when he was young and the bottle had been his father’s preferred way of handling the death of his mother coming to mind, raised almost entirely by his grandmaw for the first years of his life because his dad was either drinking and working or drinking and sleeping. There was a hereditary aspect to it he knew, but such common sense seemed to falter in favor of coping with the oppression of his anxiety.

A night that was swiftly becoming worse and worse.

And the truly funny part of it all? He wished he could depart from the date he was so quick to use as an excuse to call Hannibal.

He wanted to talk to Hannibal, but was afraid that if he did he would ask the question poised on his tongue. Knowing the answer but not prepared to hear it spoken aloud. And what then would he do once he had the answer?

His heart hammered in his chest, threatening to burst through his ribs and he rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes, stars bursting in his vision. Now was not the time to think about that. He wasn’t sure if there would ever be such a time, but it certainly wasn’t now.

He glanced at Callie, her mouth moving animatedly as she rambled on a tangent he had been too distracted to follow as it branched outward. He shifted, perching on his side and leaning over her, head swooning with the change in his position. The drink had been strong and his stomach had been too twisted to eat much of the food they ordered earlier, limbs heavy with the pull toward inebriation.

Not quite there, but close enough that the promise of such lowered inhibition was an exhilarating thrill.

Her words were cut short as he pressed his lips against hers, supporting himself on one forearm as his other hand settled lightly on her waist. She sighed into the kiss, pressing an exhale against his mouth when he rolled her onto her back, settling over her.

Several seconds passed, the room filled with the obscene sound of wet lips and soft breaths, until she swatted gently against his shoulder, turning her head to the side to break off the kiss. “Will, we don’t have-”

“You said we would make out,” he said, thankful to find the words came out playful instead of tapered into a whine. A plea to help him quiet the noises in his head; to find a sliver of peace in the calamity of his thoughts.

She smiled shyly, a giggle bubbling between her lips. “I did.”

She gave no further protesting, sighing contently as he leaned down to kiss her once more. She spread her legs, hips forming a wide cradle as he nestled between them, her feet sliding across the bed and knees rising. She moaned into the kiss, arms slinging around his waist. Her hands moved in slow, languid circles over his back, one delving to cup the back of his head, fingers entangling in the curls. They formed a fist, and she gave a gentle tug, pulling a groan from Will’s chest that was passed to her lips, the kiss thrumming.

He rolled his hips forward, clothed erection finding friction at the apex of her thighs and she writhed beneath him, trying to find a pace. Urging him to thrust against her, each collision like an electric current. Heat pooled within him, veins a wire, a conduit of pleasure as it trembled through him, amplified by the sunken quiet of his mind. Limbs, sluggish and detached as his fingers traced a phantom path down her waist.

He felt separate from himself; disembodied and removed from the moment. A passive observer to his own actions, lips trailing down the slim jaw, the bared neck. Teeth dragged across skin, a gasp and stuttering breath curling around his ears.

He slid down the soft and warm curves, fingers hooking underneath the band of her shorts and panties, pulling them down in a jerking, less-than-smooth motion, the alcohol clouding his mind and skewing his coordination. She rose her hips, easing the slide of the fabric down her legs and they were kicked away, lost in the tangle of bedsheets and the blanket.

Her loose-fitted shirt soon followed, and she pressed herself back to the mattress- creamy skin bared and flushed, peppered with wet, pink bruises that marked Will’s descent. He rose back over her, fingertips brushing the underside of her breast, lips wrapping around the dusky pink nipple.

It felt as if he was swimming, crushed on either side by water, and the pressure of the depth. Lost and dragged by the current but Callie was certain, shifting beneath him, body rising and grinding against him. Whines and moans and muttered pleas breathed between them, and even if he felt unsettled in his own skin- untethered and unmoored- her arousal and desire and need left a harsh impression in his brain. Impossible not to mirror, not to latch onto as if it were his own.

He moved down the planes of her body until her legs were tossed over his shoulders, ankles hooked together behind his head. He flattened his tongue against her seam, a slow and languid drag before flicking it over the sensitive bud beneath the swollen lips. A musky sweetness filling his mouth, low groans ringing in his ears.

His senses made acute, empathy making him keenly aware of the litany of sounds, the tremble of the legs around him as her pleasure mounted. Beckoning her towards the precipice with skill, two fingers sliding easily into her slick cunt and crooking forward.

A hand gripped tighter in his hair, a sharp pull on his scalp, and the other slapped across her mouth, muffling the pants and groans that spilled unbidden from his lips. Her hips rocked unsteadily against him, flattening against the bed for several seconds before she reached her crest and she was thrusting in quick, snapping movements, back arching like a bow.

He didn’t stop until she slumped in exhaustion, legs heavy and slipping off his shoulders. Her chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. Her skin was flushed, beads of sweat glistening on her hairline, lips swollen and red.

She really was stunning. Beautiful and kind, and he was lucky to have found someone who found his quirks endearing instead of off-putting. Who laughed at his dry and often morbid jokes. It was easy to envision a life beside her- easy to place her among the woods that crowded around his home, running alongside the too-many dogs. A life that was easier than other alternatives. Soft and kind where one was sharp and slick with blood.

He settled back on his heels, the mattress dipping and shifting with the movement. His fingers toyed with the metal clasp of his belt, and he chewed his lips nervously as he asked, “Is it okay if I…?”

She blinked her eyes open, lips parting as her gaze fell to his hands, to the erection straining against his jeans. She nodded, offering a bright, dazzling smile. “There are um...condoms, in the drawer.”

She gestured in the direction of the bedside table, and he leaned forward, reaching into the drawer and fumbling around until his fingers curled over the foil package. He sat back, fumbling with his belt buckle with purpose. The zipper tugging downward sounded obscene, and he pinched his eyes shut for several, stretching seconds. Attempting to gather the composure that was slipping through his fingers, heart pulsing erratically within his chest.

He was overthinking it. Letting his anxiety propel him when there was no reason for it. It was simple biology, and if he could just sink into the quiet of his mind, it would be _fine._

Rarely ever though was his mind quiet.

It was with a stubborn tug on his jeans- pushing them and his boxers halfway down his thighs- that he continued, determined to just have a shred of normalcy in a life that was quickly falling apart. His erection had already flagged some, as if preemptively preparing for the inevitable, and he scowled as he wrapped a hand around his cock, pumping himself slowly until he grew firm beneath his touch. Firm enough to slide the condom down over his shaft, pinching the tip of it in a practiced motion even if it had been nearly a year since he last attempted such an act.

He groaned as he sunk into her, a tight and wet heat that made something twist and coil at the base of his spine, a flutter of pleasure that extended out to his toes and made them curl. Her legs wrapped him, feet hooking together and pulling him close as she moaned low and crooked, eyes pinched close. Her feet dragged at his shirt, tugged it up along his back and as if remembering he was fully dressed, she reached a hand down, curling at the hem of his shirt and trying to pull it up.

Something like panic lurched within him, knowing the sight of the scars threaded across his flesh would invite more questions than he wanted to answer, and before he could think better of it, he wrapped his fingers over her wrist and pulled her hand above her head, pressing it into the pillow.

She gasped, moaning lewdly and bucked her hips against his and _oh thank god she wasn’t mad-_

He repeated it, clasping her other hand and pinning both wrists above her head with one hand, hoping doing so would keep them away from pulling his clothes and crawling over his skin. It seemed effective, his thrusts unheeded by her wandering touch and she writhed beneath him, pulled at the hand restraining her wrists but loosely, limply. A play-pretend sort of motion as she moaned his name and pleas for _more._

He ground against her, something tightening low in his belly and his head bowed forward, teeth digging into his lips to keep himself from biting against her neck. His pulse was an erratic thrum, his heart beating an uneven staccato, and his chest felt full, compressed and overstuffed and ready to burst and-

“ _Fuck.”_ He hissed the word like acid, grinding it like glass between his teeth when he felt the tell-tale snap of his muscles, a physiological response to mounting anxiety. Breath thready and held in too weak lungs that refused to expand and already he was growing soft, the pleasure quickly turning to something else.

  
Something dreadful, bile rising in his throat.

He pulled from her with a resigned sigh, bitterly accepting that even now he would still fail at something so utterly pathetic to fail at, nerves frayed from being so close to the relief of an orgasm only to be tossed back. Tossed into the waves of an oncoming panic attack.

The condom slipped off easily, and by the time he tucked himself back into his boxers and jeans, he was flaccid once more.

Callie rose up onto her elbows, skin flushed and chest rising and falling with her haggard breaths. “Did...did you finish?” she asked, brows knitted. Confused that she might have missed something, that the end was a fizzle and unsatisfactory compared to the beginning.

The prospect made his pride _flinch_ , but it was better than the alternative. “Mhm,” he hummed, pinching his lips into a grimacing smile. He pulled himself onto trembling legs, heart fluttering rapidly like the wings of a bird trapped in a cage. “I um...I have to go to the bathroom,” he fumbled, pausing only to give her a quick kiss when he realized how utterly _rude_ it would be otherwise, before slipping into the bathroom right outside the hall of her bedroom- thanking whatever god that they were at least merciful enough to give him a girlfriend who lived in an apartment instead of a dorm.

His face flushed thinking about _that_ walk of shame.

The thought though was quickly displaced, tossed aside as closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned against the sink, trying to steady his breathing.

But the panic wasn’t easy to dissuade, his mind flicking through images faster than he could stop it. Some from memories long ago, buried in the cavern of his mind and turning into monsters. Some more recent, the trickle of fear that came on the heels of the loose ends that had yet to be tied. Of the police officers that would be on campus, the flimsy lies to explain his absences, his disappearances that coincided with too many other disappearances.

Even if it would all be alright in the end, one way or another. A plan that would come to fruition and absolve him of all guilt or an escape into a tentative future.

_With a cannibal that was in love with him._

“Fuck,” he hissed once more, dropping his head to the porcelain sink and letting the cool surface chill his fevered skin, accepting that his mind wouldn't be quiet for a long time.

~x~

Fork tines dragged across the china plate, knives more for show as they slid easily through the _osso buco_ , the meat tender and rich as it pulled away from the bone. The marinated juices pooled outward, seeping into the risotto, and the caramelized Brussel sprouts- edges crisp and golden, toasted walnuts crumbled against the vegetable.

“Have you been to see Abigail yet since returning?” Hannibal asked, setting his wine glass down as his gaze turned to Alana. She was sat to his right, beside Jack and opposite Frederick, her ire at the former head of the BSHCI's presence hidden beneath a veil of professionalism as she regarded him with ambivalence.

_That will have to change,_ Hannibal thought, mind churning with the potential to wedge a rift between them, pull the two doctors further against each other. 

“Briefly, to give my condolences after my plane came in,” Alana answered after a weary sigh, raising her glass of wine and swirling it delicately beneath her nose. The Barolo wasn’t quite to her taste, it appeared; nostrils flattening minutely with the inhale and lips pulling tight across her face. The sip she took was slow and small, brows pinching as she set the glass down. “I think it’s hard to understand the gravity of it all in a hospital, though. Like she’s existing outside the world and won’t see how much has changed until she leaves.”

“Perhaps she should have considered that before helping her father lure all those other girls,” Jack intoned, lips tugged into snarl before closing around his fork. Silverware clattered against the table as Alana set her fork and knife down, fingers curling against her palm in a loose fist as she twisted to look at Jack with narrowed eyes.

“Her _father_ put her in that position, Jack. She’s a child-”

“She’s _twenty.”_

Alana blinked, mouth opening and closing several times as if astounded by the statement before barking out a wry, hollow chuckle. “Oh, she’s _twenty?_ Well, that changes everything, Jack. As we all know, the brain just develops the acute ability to make long-form decisions and understand the depth of their actions the moment they turn eighteen,” she hissed, her tone heavy and tilted with sardonic condescension.

“Alana-” Jack interjected, the sound of her name turned into a threat. A warning.

“ _Jack,”_ she returned, pausing briefly to take another sip of her wine. A far more indulgent one, even if her grimace was more obvious as she set it back down. “Is there an article you can cite about how age negates and retroactively dissolves the effect of gaslighting and abuse?”

Frederick scoffed, the sound drawing the focus of Alana’s wrath like a moth to a flame He was carefully spooning a serving of his risotto, eyes drawn to his plate rather than the steely-gaze burrowing into him. “There hasn’t been any evidence of abuse. Even Abigail herself said Hobbs was a good dad-”

“I’d argue turning your daughter into a lure to kill girls who look like her qualifies as some sort of abuse, regardless of whether or not he made her pancakes in the morning,” she leveled, the words slow and pulled from behind her teeth.

Jack sighed, the sound tapering into a sputter as he shook his head. He rose a hand, waving it between them. “Maybe now’s not the time for this. I’m sure Doctor Lecter doesn’t appreciate us turning this lovely meal of his into a Thunderdome,” he joked, forcing a hearty laugh.

Hannibal lowered the wine glass he had been nursing, watching the exchange with gleaming eyes over the crystalline rim of the glass. “While I’m not one to shy away from a healthy debate or an exchanging of opinions, perhaps it isn’t fair to Abigail to discuss her life so casually over dinner,” he said after a moment, the words diplomatic. Though truly he was delighting in the tension of the evening, beginning from the moment all three slowly entered his home and only mounting, becoming near palpable with unresolved arguments and stilted truces drawn in the favor of being good guests.

He had been aware, of course, that Alana and Jack argued the entirety of their flight home- hushed whispers meeting barely restrained shouts as Jack tried and failed to reign in his anger while surrounded by passengers. Alana had told him as much during their phone call and in the same breath had accepted the dinner invitation that was simply too tempting to resist offering.

The decision to invite Frederick Chilton had been a purpose of both pragmatism and intrigue to how the evening would dissolve with his presence. He was not unlike a mosquito that flew across a room, irritating those who swatted at him yet persistent as ever.

And of course, there were other reasons to host him beyond watching the rapid unraveling of professionalism around him.

“Frederick, I know it’s terribly impolite to bring this up now, but I’ve been meaning to ask a favor of you,” Hannibal began, tilting his head in the direction of the man who furrowed his brow before smoothing it out. Smugness crept slowly across his features, pleased that Hannibal was turning to him for any sort of assistance. He would be disappointed. “I’ve taken on a new patient recently and I know him to have been a patient of yours some time ago. I was hoping to see if you would be so kind as to share your file on him, as from what I understand he hasn’t had much consistency with treatment aside from yourself and another doctor I’ve already contacted.”

“Is that so?” Frederick remarked, one side of his mouth tipping into an uneven grin, pausing to chew on a bite of his food. Longer than necessary, the soft richness of the risotto not requiring the care that he was giving it but Hannibal was anything if not patient, waiting with a small smile for Frederick to swallow and add, “and which one of my former patients do you have the pleasure of working with?”

He sighed, a soft inhale as he turned to his meal, cutting a small piece of the _veal-_ a particularly chatty cow that didn't know when to keep its mouth shut. Juices seeped through the puncture of his fork, spilling over the cut. “I’m not so certain pleasure is the word, it’s a bit unorthodox if I’m being honest. But he made a compelling case and I suppose the optimist in me would like to believe I can help him,” he said, settling the meat on his tongue. He saw Alana turn to him from the periphery of her vision, gray eyes no doubt narrowed in suspicion. Before she could interrupt him with any accusations or concerns, he added, “Matthew Brown.”

“ _Hannibal!”_ came the seething call of his name, stretched out in exasperation. He was certain Alana was now openly glaring at him, painted lips pressed into a firm scowl and lines forming across her brow. Yet, he didn’t look to her, feigning ignorance as he maintained eye contact with Frederick, brows rising high and forming creases beneath his hairline, dark eyes widened.

“You’re kidding, right?” he drawled, though his grin was only widening, gleaning amusement at the thought of Hannibal taking on such a challenging patient. After several seconds in which Hannibal offered no assurances that it had, in fact, been a joke, he shrugged, chuckling softly as he said, “It will, literally, be your funeral.”

“Doctor Chilton,” Alana said wearily as if a mother to two bickering children and was unable to decide which one had committed the greater slight. She glanced between them, eventually settling on Hannibal as she began, “do you really think that’s...appropriate? Didn’t you have a restraining order on him?”

“Court imposed,” he said dismissively with a flourish of his wrist, earning him a stern glance from Alana and another chuckle from Frederick. The evening was going marvelously if he did say so himself. “As I said, Matthew and I had a frank discussion about the situation, and we both believe that we can move forward in a professional manner. After all, that whole situation wasn’t really about me, and he understands that. He’s improved markedly during his time with inpatient services.”

Frederick scoffed. “Improved is hardly the applicable word, I’d imagine. Maybe he just got subtler,” he said derisively.

Hannibal turned away from Alana, fixing the other doctor with a sobering, peculiar glance. “I’m certainly curious about your thoughts on him. Of course, he was a minor in your care, and they grow so much in such a short time that I can’t imagine the integrity is the same. Still, it would help me establish a foundation. Would you be willing to meet sometime next week to discuss-”

“Hannibal, you know I have a lot of respect for you but this seems ill-thought,” Alana interjected, reaching once more for her wine glass. It was noticeably emptier than when Hannibal had last caught sight of it. “I know I don’t know him from a professional standpoint, but based on...” she paused, glancing sidelong at Jack who was watching the exchange with befuddlement, curiosity glinting in his dark eyes. “The whole incident-”

Something ignited in Jack’s gaze, a spark of recognition at the carefully avoided words and he gestured broadly as he said, “wait, wasn’t that the kid who stalked you? Alana and I came over after he was arrested.”

Hannibal opened his mouth to respond, only for Frederick to scoff loudly, pulling his focus. “He should have stayed in the hospital if any of his doctors had an ounce of intellect,” he decried, taking a generous sip of his own wine. “That one is a blight on this community and they’ll be sorry when he eventually kills someone.”

It took a considerable amount of effort for Hannibal to school his features into one of concern; warmth and exhilaration sparking within his synapses and flooding his veins. Each utterance made by Frederick against Matthew was simply another point in Hannibal's favor, a proverbial and preemptive confession of his crimes when the very FBI agent sitting at the table with them would be called to examine Matthew’s murder, long and sinewy muscle pulled into a wonderful and incriminating tableau.

After all, he had only told Will he would be killing a patient of his. No further questions were asked and he did not have the foresight then to see what a gift would be waiting for him on his doorstep.

He could tolerate Franklyn’s sycophant tendencies for a few months longer if it meant having Matthew strapped to the surgical table below his feet.

He wondered if Will would appreciate the gesture- see it for the gift it was or if some long-forgotten _fondness_ for the boy would make his stomach sour at the thought of killing him. He hoped that wouldn't be the case, something like jealousy stirring in his chest that Will might still harbor any sort of kindness to him.

“Come now, Frederick. That’s hardly a fair attitude. He’s older now and has grown so much in such a short time. I refuse to consider him a lost cause just yet,” Hannibal said, smiling widely.

“Well, I’ve made my mind up about him some time ago and wish you the best of luck.”

Hannibal blinked, eyelashes fluttering coyly as he said, “forgive me, Frederick, but it wouldn’t be the first time your initial decision on a patient was proven wrong. Or even the second.”

It was a bold thing to say, stepping well behind the line of his usual flirtation with impoliteness. But the retort had the desired response, Frederick’s face flushing and lips sputtering as he rose an accusatory finger that slid between Hannibal and Alana. “Need I remind you that we were all Will Graham’s therapists and got it wrong.”

“ _Frederick!_ ” Alana chastised, leaning forward across the table to hiss the name. The rich, heady smell of tannins was thick on her breath, seams of her lips tinted purple. “We are veering dangerously close to breaking confidentiality-” 

Before Frederick could respond, Hannibal said- his voice raised only slightly to be heard over the rising clatter of the quickly dissolving dinner party, “Considering the circumstances at play, I believe I worked well with Mister Graham, and hope to have the same degree of success, if not more so, with Mister Brown.”

Frederick snorted at the proclamation, face pulling into a dubious expression. “The thing that worked for Will was the _Chesapeake Ripper._ ”

_There it is._

“Excuse me?” Jack asked, the sound of his voice a boom as it rattled against the chandelier and near-empty wine glasses, a startling call as if everyone else had all at once forgotten he was there. His eyes were wide, lips parted, and he looked ready to demand an explanation for the sudden evocation of the specter he long since hunted when Alana spoke.

“Confidentiality, Jack,” she reminded tersely, reaching for her wine glass and finishing it in a quick gulp.

He huffed, an argument resting on his tongue regardless of such confidentiality that had already been tested and teased during the evening when he sighed, shaking his head in acceptance that Alana would not waver. She was, if nothing else, a fierce and loyal protector of the patients in her care.

A stilted silence fell over the table, sharpened and pointed glares tossed around that each party pretended not to see as Hannibal reached for the serving cart set behind him, producing from the top shelf an unopened bottle of Barolo. “Can I offer anyone more wine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal’s internal monologue this whole chapter, as he’s setting the stage for framing Chilton and stirring the pot just for fun: Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.
> 
> The first of many of Hannibal’s awkward dinner parties. Though this one has significantly less sexual tension than the others. And Will doesn’t seem to realize he has a pattern of thinking about Hannibal before/during/after sex, huh? That doesn’t mean anything, I’m sure.
> 
> Also for those interested, I started writing a Hannigram RomCom fic because God refuses to let me die and until then I will make everyone around me horrified of me with a self-loathing that is as high as my self-restraint is low. Toodles.
> 
> Next Up: Will begins to confront his own feelings for our favorite simp cannibal, and maybe they’re not as platonic as he first thought. And the abduction of the first pig in the sounder is underway (much to Will’s discontent at how it goes down.)


	11. Ennui

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got TWO dumb and jealous besotted cannibals now!

**Chapter Ten: Ennui**

Will leaned over the desk set below the window, staring at the cop cars in the lot just outside his window. They were parked, the car shut off and the two figures idling within the carriage before they would finally leave and begin the third day of interviews. Perhaps consulting the list of remaining students to be interviewed, each attendee of the party _encouraged_ to offer their name. Will’s name sat somewhere within the document, having learned long ago that oftentimes the best hiding place was in plain sight, obscuring oneself in a display of innocence.

There were still no leads, no evidence to pull from and the tightly wound coil of anxiety was beginning to loosen; to ease in increments.

A hand slid into his pocket, fingers smoothing gently over the screen of the disposable cell phone.

He hadn’t spoken with Hannibal since that night- the revelation of his feelings toward him so dizzying and disorienting that each ring of the phone and rattling vibration was met with dread. Hannibal had called him four times, each call left to go unanswered. He left no voicemail- of course- and no inquiring text messages followed the missed calls.

He knew it was unreasonable- unfair, even. The man didn’t really deserve to be ignored when seemingly nothing had changed between them but it was simply too difficult. Too difficult to separate himself from Hannibal and the conflicting thoughts and he was uncertain of where to even begin to do so. How he might go about trying to decipher his next actions when so much of himself felt lost.

The thought of playing ignorant to Hannibal’s true feelings was the most tempting, but one he was certain would ultimately crumble. The infrastructure was weak and the tension too strong. How long could he plausibly pretend he didn’t know- endangering the lives of anyone who might deign to be with him romantically? Guilt by an association of the cruelest sort?

How long would Hannibal allow it to go on before confronting him with it, taking even more control from something that Will felt was rapidly slipping from his fingers?

And even then, to what depth did his feelings go?

What exactly did it mean to be adored by a monster?

The thoughts were endless, his chest congested with the doubt and uncertainty and he wished it could be simple. That there was a guide or something he could turn to that would tell him what to do.

The only thing he knew for certain was he couldn’t ignore him forever. Not currently, not while sinking deep into the quagmire they had worked themselves in.

Or, he supposed- cheeks flaming with guilt- the quagmire _he_ worked them in.

Hannibal would have been fine if not for Will- his life and reality unbothered. It was, as much as Will hated to admit it if only because of the blame it leveled on his shoulders, an act of kindness that Hannibal was going to such lengths for him. Was placing himself in a position to be forever scrutinized, forced to retire an identity he had lovingly fabricated all in the name of helping Will. Cleaning up after him without a complaint or even a request to level a debt between them. A _quid pro quo_ to balance the scales of something quickly becoming skewed and his brain twinged as he tried to understand _why_.

What motive might he have? Surely Hannibal had to be aware of how imbalanced their dynamic was, how much more Hannibal was giving while Will was only taking. Why was he allowing it? When might the proverbial shoe drop and Will found himself having to repay for a crippling debt that had now become insurmountable?

After all, how long would such charity last even if in the name of love?

He sighed, pulling the phone from his pocket calling the only number programmed within it, marked with an _H_ for identification. He held it against his ear, listening to the soft chirp as it rang three times before the sound came to an abrupt end, replaced by the familiar voice, deep and thickened like honey even as it was distorted by the mechanical speaker. _“Hello, Will. What a surprise.”_ There was a lilt to his voice, not quite light enough to be considered playful or teasing but mimicking the tone of such.

“Sorry, I’ve been...” he hesitated, chewing his lip as he searched for the right word before finally settling on, “busy.”

Hannibal did not respond right away, a soft, doubtful hum vibrating through the speaker and curling around Will’s ear. _“I’m sure.”_ Less teasing than before, scant amounts of frustration, and possibly even hurt threading the words.

It was an odd notion to think he might have hurt the Chesapeake Ripper’s feelings, and his initial, gut reaction was to scoff at it. But to think that Hannibal was so one-dimensional to not be familiar with the ache of rejection was cruelty in its own right, and once more he thought of all the sacrifices being made in his name- for his freedom.

“The cops are here,” he said, deciding it best to leave the matter untouched. To move forward as if nothing had happened. “They’ve been doing interviews all weekend about Noah’s disappearance. They haven’t gotten to me yet, though.”

“ _That’s a good thing. It means you’re low on the list of suspects. Any interview will be perfunctory. Just stick to a story and keep yourself in control and you’ll be fine. And try to make eye contact, if you can. Refusal to do so is often indicative of guilt,”_ he advised, and there was comfort in the stoicism. The steadying voice easing the tension from Will’s body with each self-assured direction.

“I just wish it would be done and over with,” he said, glancing out the window once more. The car was empty, the detectives having stepped inside the building to begin their questioning. “I wish a lot of things would be done and over with.”

Hannibal said nothing, the quiet stilted yet comfortable- as comfortable as it could be on the phone, the overwhelming sense of presence without anyone actually being present a sort of discomfiting expectation to it. He pushed away from the desk, dropping onto the bed and leaning his back against the headboard, pillows softening the indents of shelves in his back.

Eventually, Hannibal did speak, paper shuffling in the background and Will wondered if he was sketching when he called- sat at his desk in his study in his home, a sketchbook stretched open and charcoal pencils twirling in his dexterous fingers. _“I do have some good news. Regarding Doctor Gideon. Well, good news for us. It isn’t good for Abel, though I suspect it hardly matters much.”_

Will arched a brow. “What is it?”

“ _He’s been in the hospital since yesterday. Some of his scans showed irregularities and he was brought in for a biopsy,”_ he began, and if Will strained he could hear the scratch of something against the textured paper. Yes, he was definitely sketching. _“There is a shift changeover at nine in the evening for the guards outside his room, and the coverage will be light for approximately fifteen minutes- one guard instead of the two. I’m hoping to procure him within that time.”_

Will blinked, scratching at his chin. “Fifteen minutes isn’t a lot. Are you sure you...you won’t get caught, will you?” It was a startling prospect, one which seemed an impossibility. As if Hannibal Lecter defied the restraints of this world, a preternatural being that was more specter than man when he wanted to be.

“ _No, I won’t,”_ came the terse response, a hint of offense coloring the words. _“Besides, I won’t be doing it alone. I’ll have help.”_

Will frowned, brows furrowing as he tried to decipher the statement; chewing the words and attempting to digest them. _“Help?_ What do you mean _you have help?”_

“ _It means precisely that. Help,”_ Hannibal reiterated, offering no further explanation as he brushed against the paper, the sound like sandpaper dragging over wood.

Something prickled in Will’s chest and he scowled into the phone. “Hannibal, who’s helping you?” The words were harsher than he intended, something roughening them as they were pulled from his throat and he frowned at his own voice. At the near growl of the words.

“ _It’s a surprise,”_ Hannibal said- and it was playful now. Whatever waspish mood had struck him before dissolving now, his usual delight crisp and sparkling. _“Are you jealous, Will?”_

The sound that came out of his throat was a cross between a scoff and a strangled wine, and Will sputtered out several incomprehensible noises before finally managing to say, “No, I’m not-”

He paused, hesitated over the firm denial. What was there to be jealous of? He was _mad_ of course- hadn’t half the purpose of the sounder been so that Will could experience it? The entirety of it all, the hunt and the kill and the display- all beside Hannibal, watching the beast in all his glory? Knowing that no one else would bear witness to such a thing.

Until now, at least.

“You said I could hunt with you,” he finally answered when too much time had passed and he needed to say something or else look guilty. A second passed, then, “And _who is it?”_

Maybe it was jealousy, even if he refused to call it such. Jealous that someone else was allowed access to the darkest corners of his mind that Will had previously thought belonged only to him.

“ _It isn’t prudent for you to join me on this one, but you’ll help me with the others,”_ Hannibal answered, adding, _“and it wouldn’t be a very good surprise if I told you.”_

Will scoffed, folding an arm over his chest, curling the fingers over the elbow of the arm raising the phone to his ear. Reluctantly accepting that Hannibal wouldn’t tell him.

“ _Stop pouting, you’re acting like a brat.”_

“I’m not-”

“ _Yes, you are. I can practically hear your teeth grinding,”_ Hannibal admonished. Before Will could say anything further, Hannibal asked, _“how was your date?”_

The sharp turn in the conversation destabilized him, mouth snapping closed and eyes widening. He flinched at the recollection of the night, humiliation seeping into him at the memory- still vivid and concise in the way those sorts of memories were. Each misstep amplified, each sensation sunk into his skin so that the thought of the moment burrowed into the pores and fine lines of his flesh. He hadn’t been ignoring Callie the way he did Hannibal, but his messages were curt and vague until eventually, they tapered- hours instead of minutes passing between and neither had bothered yet today to reignite the embers of what remained. “Fine,” he mumbled tersely.

“ _You’re lying. You winced.”_

Will scowled, spine snapping as he sat upright in bed, glancing quizzically around the room as if he might find an uninvited guest sitting in the corner or a camera perched overhead. “Did you _bug_ my room?” It wasn’t a sincere accusation- Hannibal didn’t need to delve to such overt and _crass_ means in order to dig himself beneath the skin of others; to flay them open and make them vulnerable.

“ _Of course not, I just know you well enough by now,”_ Hannibal answered, tone flat- seeing Will’s quip for the half-hearted measure it was. After a moment, he asked, _“Did you have another fight over the progress of your intimacy?”_

His lips parted in a sputtering, humorless laugh. “Uh, yeah, no.”

“ _Oh,”_ was all Hannibal said, understanding the implication in the few uttered words. Paper shuffled, and Will wondered if the older man was once more _jealous._ Possessive of Will in a way he had no right to be- something that if he was being fair, they shared- his own envy still coiling in his chest, heavy and vile as it wrung his organs like a snake squeezing its prey. Both of them wanting to own the other, though in which way? To what extent? His own motives felt as elusive to him as Hannibal’s, doubt and anxiety blurring the edges.

Hannibal’s voice was muted, almost scornful as he muttered, _“Most people would consider that a successful date.”_

“It would have to be successful to be successful.” The words were easier to say when there was a distance between them- when they were passed through the wires of a phone, turned into a signal and waves. Or perhaps it was simply because Hannibal was seeming more and more human, a humility of some sort revealing itself beneath the ugly patchwork of such jealousy.

“ _Is that frequently a problem for you?”_ Hannibal asked, and Will sat in silence, stubbornly worrying his lower lip between his teeth until he tasted iron and flecks of torn skin. When it became clear Will had no intent to answer, he prompted, _“Do you find you dissociate often during sex?”_

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled, cheeks warm as a blush unfurled across his chest, rising up his neck and coloring his face. It might have been _easier_ to talk about it without sitting bodily beside the man, but it was no less humiliating.

“ _I know you don’t. Would you be so opposed to listening, though?”_

His initial response was to scoff at the question; to firmly shut the notion down and veer the topic to something less demeaning. To mock him even- to prod at the fact that he was bound to do a lot of listening with someone as chatty as Hannibal. But there was a sincerity in the words, and after a few seconds of hesitation, he relented. “I guess not.”

If Hannibal was surprised by Will’s response, he didn’t remark on it, speaking in a tone that was best described as clinical- and there was some comfort in the detachedness of it. _“You’ve trained yourself to dissociate at touch. It may have worked well in your past, but has now resulted in an inability to recognize the difference between a touch you want and one you don’t. So, the simplest course of action for your body is to simply shut down. You will have to retrain yourself to learn to stay present. The best way to do that is with meditation.”_

Will blinked, unable to disguise the doubt in his voice as he said, “Like...yoga?”

The soft exhalation of a laugh pressed against his ear. _“Meditation is just the practice of learning to ground yourself. It’s a practice in awareness- in this instance, awareness of your body and how it relates to your pleasure and your responses.”_

“That doesn’t sound like yoga.”

“ _Meditation is a state of mind, not an act. Fishing can be a conduit for meditation.”_

He crinkled his nose, a laugh of his own pulled from his throat. “I don’t think that will help.”

Hannibal hesitated to respond, an uncertain hum crackling in the speaker and the tension that had slowly eased from his muscles over the course of the conversation returned, nerves bristling. It was never a good thing when _Hannibal_ hesitated. _“That was an example. Of course, the conduit in question is one more applicable to your anxieties. I trust you know what I’m talking about?”_

He did, and the blush that had steadily crept over his flesh had turned molten, pale skin painted crimson. “Mhm,” he managed to choke out.

“ _Good.”_

He said nothing else, and Will took it to be a sign that the conversation had- mercifully- come to an end, listening to the scratch of charcoal to paper. He imagined drawing was a meditative act for Hannibal- not cooking, though. There was no self-assessment found within the steel and bright surfaces of the kitchen. No humbling search for betterment, no actualization.

Only ascension.

He licked his lips, trying to move past the unsettling remnants of Hannibal’s implication. “What are you drawing?”

The scratching stopped. _“Have_ you _bugged my room?”_

“Of course not, I just know you enough by now,” he parroted. “So what is it?”

“ _If you know me enough by now then surely you can figure it out by conjecture,”_ Hannibal taunted, adding, _“Though I’m afraid I will have to put my pencils and this conversation to the wayside by now. I have some preparations to make before picking up my guest.”_

“Guests,” Will corrected, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from curling in his words.

A chuckle came, followed by the words, “Yes. Plural. Though only one will be staying for dinner.” Will supposed he should consider it a mercy that Hannibal chose not to accuse him of jealousy once more. “Thank you for returning my calls, Will. And good luck with your interview.”

He grumbled a _thanks_ , hanging up the phone and setting it down by his hip after sharing their goodbyes.

The room felt oddly empty now in the absence of their words, the silence disquieting. Even without a physical presence, Hannibal had a habit of leaving an indelible mark on all aspects of his life, making the spaces that had previously been unassuming and fine seem vacant. Did Hannibal feel the same absence? The corners and shadows of his study unwelcoming without being filled with Will’s voice? Was his absence at the dinner table after many nights spent over a meal they prepared together like a ghost? A presence felt but not seen?

Will didn’t usually struggle to see how others perceived him- a curse of his disordered brain that made him all too aware of condemning or mocking glances, lascivious leers, or uncomplicated smiles that simply spoke of happiness to see him. But Hannibal was different. So in control of what slipped through the cracks in his demeanor, everything muted and threaded with sadism and unbridled delight that made it hard to see the more genuine parts of him. The soft and fleshy and vulnerable ones.

Made it hard to understand which of those facets Will had been carved into; whether he was set within the contours of his sadism or in something else. Something yet unseen even to him.

Moreover, where did Hannibal fit in Will’s mind?

It should have been clearer to understand- his own thoughts having nowhere to hide. But they tangled themselves efficiently in the thoughts of everyone else; enough that they were camouflaged within the chaos. The last time he and Hannibal had been so entwined, it took two years of separation to understand which depravity was his own and which was borrowed. They were conjoined, and there was a part of him that was curious if either of them would survive a separation. Another severance so that Will could once more set out on finding himself in the tangled web of identities.

He didn’t think they would.

It was easy with others. Callie and his exes had been pleasantly uncomplicated. There were no predictions to be made, no motives to calculate. No multitudes to make the matter feel like navigating a minefield. No penchant for cruelty to sit like a phantom in his mind- or at least, no cruelty without limits.

Will sighed, swinging his head back and letting it _thwack_ painfully against the shelf above his bed- a picture of him with his too-many dogs clattering in its frame. He felt as if he might go mad, talking himself into circles because of his cowardice.

Cowardice that felt pathetic; once he had stormed into Hannibal’s office when he had even less reason to trust him, armed only with incriminating photos and a gun to protect him from the wrath of the Chesapeake Ripper.

How had that been easier than _this?_

Something not quite like resolve struck him. Less a self-assuredness to see it through than it was a desire to be done with it. The sort of motivation one felt when taking on a daunting task that wouldn’t disappear no matter how hard they might want it to.

He glanced at the phone, chewing his lip before dismissing the thought. It might have been easier over the phone, but it felt _wrong_ that way. Not nearly personal enough; the lack of sight a hindrance instead of the comfort it had been only moments earlier.

He had two classes the next day, but neither were labs. He could miss a day of studies.

Pushing himself up from the bed, he made his way to the wardrobe to pull out a change of clothes. He tossed the sweatpants and shirt he was wearing into the laundry bin, sliding into a pair of jeans and a flannel button up.

He was sat on the bed, ankle tossed over his knee as he tied his shoe, when a knock rapped against his door.

He crossed the small room in five steps, swinging the door open to the sight two detectives standing in the hall.

“Will Graham?” one asked, his dark eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses.

He nodded.

“We were just hoping to talk to you about a party you attended. Are you available for a quick chat?” his partner asked, a younger woman with straight ashen hair pulled into a low ponytail.

He was careful to keep his eyes locked on their own, widened and solemn in the manner of innocence. “Yeah, of course,” he said, stepping aside to allow them entrance to his room.

~x~

Hannibal strode to the hospital room door with purpose, a confident and familiar air about him as he approached the officer standing guard outside Abel Gideon’s room. “Good evening, officer. I’m sorry to bother you, but I noticed Nurse Jennings left a note during his rounds that the patient was complaining about the medication and I thought I might do a quick exam to see if I could prescribe something more suitable,” he said, smiling congenially.

The officer glanced at the room behind him- the closed-door one of the few things keeping a dangerous and violent criminal locked away from the rest of the world.

For only a few minutes longer, though.

“You’re not his regular doctor,” the officer said after a moment, hazel eyes flicking back to Hannibal.

“No, his doctor is unavailable until Tuesday, I’m afraid. But from what I understand he’s in pain and I’m certain Doctor Eliot won’t mind my stepping in.”

The officer glanced once more to the door before offering a slow nod, raising a hand and curling the fingers into his palm. “Alright, head on in.”

Hannibal tipped his head in thanks, slipping into the room and pulling a set of medical gloves from the box affixed to the wall beside the door. Abel Gideon was strewn out on the bed, thin cotton blanket resting over him. His hands were held at his sides, metal handcuffs straining against his wrists, the links bound to the handrail flanking him.

His eyes flicked to Hannibal before rolling in exasperation. “Oh, thank _god_. The last nurse who was in here left the remote on the tray and I’ve watched three hours worth of _90 Day Fiance._ I’m not exaggerating when I say I’d rather be in prison,” he drawled, earning an indulgent grin as Hannibal stepped around the hospital bed, pulling a vial of clear fluid from his pocket and settling it on the meal tray.

“Hello, Doctor Gideon. How are you feeling this evening?” He produced the syringe from his coat pocket next, the action catching the eye of the former surgeon- the lopsided grin rapidly slipping from his face.

“That’s an odd place for a doctor to keep his hypodermics. Couldn’t be bothered to get a medical cart?” he asked, tension tugging on the words. Understanding making his eyes harden and glint and they flicked to the closed-door before returning to Hannibal.

Hannibal answered with a grin, letting the tips of his teeth peek out from between his lips. He rose the glass vial, inserting the needle and slowly pulling the plunger. When he was satisfied with the amount, he set the vial back down, turning his attention to the central line.

Gideon eyed the needle, raising his chin even as he pressed himself further against the mattress, metallic chains rattling noisily with his sluggish resistance. Hannibal had seen his charts, of course. Read about all the medications given to him to ease the pain of his illness and to aid the healing of diseased cells. The medications he was fed to make him pliant and soft; dull and less threatening under the guise of lowering the anxiety of his looming death. He hissed once the medication rushed into his veins, a sharp chill that radiated from his chest and spread outward with each pulse. His mouth twitched. “Why do I feel like bad reality television is the least of my concerns right now?”

“Perceptive as ever, Doctor Gideon,” Hannibal said, depositing the needle in the sharps disposal bin hung on the wall. He dropped to a crouch beside the bed, nimble fingers pulling at a pin-like needle affixed to the leveraging mechanics of the bed. He broke it off with a sharp pull. “Though, I suppose, that’s a very low bar to hit. Your perception of yourself has left something to be desired, mostly in thanks to Doctor Chilton’s reckless therapy.”

“All wat-er...under the...the bri-idge by now,” Gideon muttered, words stumbling and hitching over a tongue made languid, a jaw too slackened to move as the paralytic quickly took hold.

“Not for me it isn’t,” he returned, skillfully picking the lock of the handcuffs with the broken wire pulled from the bed. “It’s a terrible thing, having your identity stolen.” The muscles in Gideon’s face had fallen too laxed by then for so much a twitch in response to Hannibal’s words, eyes glassy as his heavy lid fell over them, partially closed and obscured behind his lashes.

He would still be able to hear, to understand the pointed and sharp insinuations in his speech even if he couldn’t respond. “You’ll be heading to the morgue, Doctor Gideon. Though don’t worry, only for transport. It’s a bit quieter with less prying eyes and a medical bay for a quick escape. But first, Abel, you’ll have to commit just one more murder.”

He pulled the prone and heavy body into the wheelchair, sitting him upright before settling the blanket over his lap, taking care to tuck it away from the wheels. The handcuffs sat on the bed like snakeskin, metal curled over itself and he pulled one, unhinging the mouth of one cuff as far as it would go and held it in his grasp. He gave a swift kick to the bedpan placed under the bed- tossing it across the room so it clanged and clattered in an echoing ruckus. The sound rang loud in his ears as he pressed himself against the wall behind the door, waiting for only a second for it to be tossed aside as the officer barged within the room.

It was quick and efficient- a practical kill. The sort of thing Gideon would do if he knew the clock was steadily counting down and the passage for an escape grew narrower. A foot pressed behind the knees of the officer made him bow, crumple with a surprised yelp. One hand flattened against his forehead, tipping his head back and bearing the column of his throat. The other pressed the tip of the handcuff- the slim metal tip that would lock in place- into the soft pulse point of his neck, dragging it across.

The anguished cry was cut short, twisted into gurgling sobs as blood sprayed in an arch across the room. Red painted the floor, gushing steadily from the messy wound crafted from a makeshift weapon.

Hannibal released his hold, weight dropping to the floor in a heap, trembling fingers slipping across linoleum- smearing blood across his palms. The rust-colored set of handcuffs were dropped with it, bouncing against the officer’s back and slinking down his side. Hannibal peeled the gloves off, stuffing them in the pocket of his coat as he stepped over the body and returned to the wheelchair, guiding Gideon out the door- stopping only to pluck the gun from the holster and rest it beneath the folds of the blanket on Gideon’s lap.

“You would steal that, of course. Wouldn’t get very far without it,” he narrated, leaning forward to keep his voice low. He came to a stop outside the elevators, watching the numbers above the doors blink and flicker out before steadying, a beep sounding as they slid open.

Matthew stood in the center of the vestibule, dressed in pale blue scrubs- gloved hand curled over the handle of a gun. The faux-wooden panel was stained in blood, three large splatters high on the walls that seeped and trickled downward. Hannibal glanced at the bodies at his feet- two police officers and a nurse, blond hair twisted across a pale face. He rose a question brow.

Matthew shrugged, lips contorting into a wry smirk. “I tried to tell her it was full.”

“I’m sure. I trust you’ve taken care of the security cameras?” At Matthew’s jerking nod, he added, “come along then.” He turned away from the younger man, continuing his march down the hall.

Rubber soles squeaked over the floor as Matthew rushed to keep up with him.

“Wait, where are we going?”

“Not all the elevators direct to the morgue. We’ll need a special key to get there as well- employees only.”

“Where do we get the key?” Matthew asked, excitement hitching the words. Eager to use the gun in his hand a few more times, perhaps.

“I’ve already procured it.”

Matthew glanced at him, beady eyes narrowed. He said nothing until they tucked themselves into the staff elevator, the doors enclosing in the space as it lurched down, his stomach fluttering with the motion. “You gonna tell me how you did that?” he asked, curiosity gleaming in the dark irises, disappearing as the pupils widened in the heady rush of adrenaline.

“And reveal all my secrets?” Hannibal asked, a brow raised.

He was not surprised when the barrel of a gun was leveled to his head, held in a sweat-slicked palm and twitching fingers. He didn’t falter, letting his gaze slant from the metal rim to the twisted mien of the man holding it.

“I could shoot you right now. Kill you and him. Both the Chesapeake Rippers dead by my hand,” Matthew said, lips snarling to reveal the glint of his teeth- bearing his sharpened canines as if a predator cornering his prey.

“You could,” Hannibal agreed, maintaining his gaze for several seconds longer before turning away to glance at the panel of all the floors set between them and their escape. A gap they were closing in on, a wound being sutured closed with each crawling second. “But you won’t.”

Matthew licked his lips- a wet, obscene sound that required no visual. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because Will’s not here. And wasn’t that your plan? For you and him to kill me?”

Matthew chuckled. “And then we were going to eat you.”

Hannibal nodded, straightening his back as the elevator beeped and the doors separated. The corridor that stretched beyond it was empty- quiet in the late hours of the evening. The floor was always a sliver of peace in the usual frenetic bedlam above- no disgruntled or wailing patients calling from their rooms. No orderlies or nurses traipsing about. Just a few medical students playing-pretend on a corpse who would not complain when they jabbed the needle just shy of the vein, coroners, and the dead.

He pushed Gideon forward, his presence between the doors keeping them locked in the open hold. “Yes. Have you considered what recipes you’d like to make?” He finally returned his gaze to Matthew, nonplussed by the gun before him.

Matthew rose a brow. “Have you?”

Of course, he had. He was nothing if not prepared. He would braise his tongue- allowing it to cook slowly so it would be tender, marinated in wine and hearty gravy. He had considered what other meats he might harvest, dismissing them slowly one by one. Lungs blackened from smoke that would taste like tar and ash. His liver might be too damaged, poisoned slowly by a plethora of medication and more illicit drugs even if there was no outward sign of wear, it would too coppery. Too metallic and acidic. The muscles of his heart weakened by all the strain of such drugs, not thick and gamey and it wouldn't hold up to the heavy sauces he would serve it with.

He had hoped Will might have something in mind. A cut of meat of his choosing, a dish he might prepare on his own. Something warm and spicy and southern. Something, perhaps, he would serve to Matthew himself. A final meal.

“Naturally,” he answered, offering no further details.

“I’m not such a great cook, Doc,” Matthew began, his face pulling into one of artificial concern. “I’d probably burn you.”

“Will can help with that part,” Hannibal agreed.

They remained like that, Matthew’s fingers flexing over the gun, slipping under the curved trigger guard- thumb teasing at the hammer. Seconds stretching outward, lulling and limping as Hannibal continued to stare, waiting for the decision to still the twitching muscles and resolve to school the features of his face.

He lowered the gun, uneven grin tilting his face. “I won’t shoot you. Not yet, at least.”

“Promises, promises,” Hannibal said coyly, pushing the wheelchair forward and stepping into the corridor. The bay doors were only a few steps away, a car he purchased for this precise moment awaiting them.

“I will,” Matthew asserted, his tone firm and punctuated with anger at Hannibal’s doubt. Annoyed that he failed to rattle the beast despite the feel of cold metal in his hands. “Just not right now. Now, I’m just too curious to see how it all will end.”

The lanky boy stepped forward, pushing open the doors, holding them open with his body to allow Hannibal to pass.

He considered Matthew, lean muscles pulling taut beneath the scrubs as he popped open the trunk. He thought of Will, and what he might do if given the chance. Whatever friendship that existed between them had been one made in desperation; parasitic in nature. Vermin feeding off a host. There was the chance that fondness still lingered between them, weak and dying though it was.

Yet, Hannibal imagined Will would delight in the kill. Something he didn’t know he wanted until it was presented to him, an opportunity he hadn’t considered because Matthew had become so insignificant in the few years that passed he barely gave thought to him.

And if he didn’t, he imagined it wasn’t too kind. The memory of Matthew’s invasive touches and possessive claim corroding in his mind as time moved onward- as distance made him more objective, less small.

He would set him loose, he decided. Removing the formality of his usual restraints and trappings, foregoing the surgical table in lieu of an open space for Will to prowl and kill. Feral and monstrous and undeniably beautiful.

His lips tipped into a slow smile at the thought, hoisting Gideon up by his underarms as Matthew took his feet. “I admit to some curiosity on that matter myself, Mister Brown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gideon is legitimately my FAVORITE character outside of the main cast in the whole show. He's such a delight in every scene so I'm so happy to finally have him in the story as he's also in some of my favorite scenes for this fic. (Also, it is so jarring to go between writing this and a romcom fic, I think I gave myself whiplash from the tone shift.)
> 
> NEXT UP: Matthew makes a proposition that only makes Hannibal want to kill him more (somehow) and Murder Baby confronts his Murder Daddy about all these Feeling (TM).


	12. Benediction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Long boi chapter. There wasn't a natural stopping point and I also just didn't want to make this two chapters so. Also, Hannibal is MAXIMUM lovesick in this chapter. It's disgusting, honestly.

**Chapter Eleven: Benediction**

Hannibal pulled the car to a stop alongside the curb of a darkened street, shifting the gear into park as he turned to Matthew expectantly, the scrubs he had been wearing since replaced by jeans and a plain shirt. “I believe this is your stop.”

Matthew glanced up, eyes narrowing at the sight of his group home stretching beside him, a hazy golden glow emitting from the windows of the lower level- blurred as it was filtered past the curtains. He turned back to Hannibal, features pinched tightly into a look of discontent. “I thought you were going to let me help kill him.”

“Doctor Gideon will not be dying tonight. Or even the next few nights. And unfortunately, you’ve already missed your curfew by half an hour,” he explained, raising a finger to tap against the digital clock on the dashboard.

He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll just tell them the bus ran late or they asked me to stay later at work to help out. I’m a very good helper,” he said, lips tilting into an uneven grin as he gave a wink.

“It was a little sloppy,” Hannibal said, watching as the grin waned, twitched into a frown. “I expect you to be a little more refined next time, as it wouldn’t do to have any deviance.” A lie, of course. There would be no _next_ time for Matthew, no more opportunities to learn at the heel of such a behemoth of a man. A master of his trade. His role served a purpose, one he filled admirably without even knowing the limits and requirements of his assistance. In truth, it was a matter of the sloppier the better in this instance, but he certainly wasn’t about to give Matthew the satisfaction of praise or even allow him to think such recklessness was acceptable.

Matthew scoffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Yeah, well maybe I’d have a more _refined_ touch if you showed me how. Wasn’t that part of the deal?” he asked, folding his arms petulantly over his chest and tossing an accusatory glare in Hannibal’s direction. “I help you and you show me what you do and how you do it?”

“I’m familiar with the aspects of our agreement, and I assure you, Mister Brown, you will not be missing out on anything for the remainder of the evening. It will be rather mundane. Unless you have a vested interest in learning how to insert a catheter and prepare a trout dinner, you would only be disappointed,” he assured.

Matthew shifted in his seat, twisting so that his left leg pulled up, knee resting against the center console- right leg still stretched out beneath the dashboard even as it moved with the change of position. His entire body pointed towards Hannibal, seatbelt straining across his shoulder. His eyes gleamed, a brightness to them that came from within, no lights to reflect- the car situated between two streetlamps so that they sat in the shadows untouched by their glow.

“Well, you can show me the room at least, right? I know you have something- a place you’ll be keeping him,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the trunk as if there was any question about what _him_ meant. “Bet you have all sorts of fun tools and toys in there.”

Hannibal smiled indulgently, feeling his patience stretch, tremble as Matthew tested it. He prided himself in his patience, his ability to refrain from the tempting lure of instant gratification in favor of a larger, more substantial prize. But it was still a finite resource, even if his limits exceeded what he considered average.

And Matthew was pushing him toward his limits.

“All in good time, Mister Brown,” he promised- a promise he intended to keep. Matthew would see his basement, and become familiar with all the surfaces and the sharpened edges of the _toys_ he seemed so eager to know. But the pretenses would not be the same and he would know the tools not by their handle but by their blade.

Matthew smile, a pink tongue darting out to dampen his lips. “Maybe I can convince you to make that time come a little sooner?”

There was an innuendo in there, a misunderstanding that might have realized itself in a chuckle deep in Hannibal’s chest if he hadn’t been distracted by the feel of a palm resting on his knee. It was warm, the heat a heavy presence on his flesh- even between the fabric of his trousers- and he glanced at Matthew with a quirked brow, his indulgent smile slowly tipping upward.

_Foolish boy._

“I’m afraid I have no interest in such an arrangement, Mister Brown,” he said, though the words fell on deaf ears, Matthew simply humming as his hand inched further along Hannibal’s thigh, sliding down the soft curve to touch where the skin would be soft and sensitive.

“Come on,” Matthew urged, the hand not idly trailing over Hannibal’s leg reaching over to clip his seatbelt, the strap hissing as it slipped away- still held in place but offering Matthew more leverage, more room to cant his hips. “I won’t even ask for reciprocation. I know better than to let a cannibal give me head.”

At that, Hannibal did chuckle, finding the display- though wanton and pathetic- amusing. But the amusement was quick to dissolve, fading and crackling into something more akin to _anger_. Not for him, but on behalf of another. Someone smaller and younger who did not know how to shut down such advances- who found no amusement under such touches; only shame and self-loathing. “You are not so easily dissuaded, are you?” he asked, voice lowered into a growl- a warning, just shy of the snarl he felt twisting in his gut.

“Nope,” Matthew said with a breathy laugh, popping the sound of the _‘p’_ between his lips. His hand had risen to the apex of Hannibal’s thighs now, smoothing over the seams of the slacks and looking slighted by the lack of response beneath the fabric. He glanced up from beneath the fan of his lashes, batting them coquettishly as he added, “I’ll even let you call me _Will._ ”

Any restraint he might have possessed snapped at the insinuation, the thread of his patience frayed and torn. The movement was swift, heavy enough to jostle the car as Hannibal lurched from his seat, one hand rising and settling over Matthew’s throat. He pinned him against the window of the passenger car door, head _thwacking_ painfully against the thick glass and eyes pinching shut as stars burst in his vision from the force of it.

A sputtered, strangled whined escaped from between his lips, hands scrabbling to dig his nails into Hannibal’s flesh, trying and failing to pry his hand away.

“Perhaps I was mistaken in you, Matthew,” he spoke, face lowered so he was only inches from Matthew, each breath fluttering like a taunting ghost against the younger boy’s face; a reminder of his deprivation. “I was giving you an undue amount of respect. A belief that your eagerness and recklessness was an act meant to conceal a shrewd insight so others might underestimate you. Now I’m starting to believe you are simply recklessly _stupid._ ”

Matthew’s lips twitched, turning a pale shade of blue, eyes bulging with the pressure around his neck. His clawing became more frantic with each second that passed without oxygen, desperation inflaming within his cells. Withering, burning lungs unable to expand, aching in need.

Hannibal tightened his grasp, shoving him once more against the window with a sharp _crack_ before releasing his hold. He settled back into his seat, watching with disinterested eyes as Matthew gasped and sputtered for air, mouth pulled into a wide _‘o’_ in an attempt to consume as much air as he could manage, chest rising and falling in shuddering breaths.

His greed turned into coughs, skin flushed red as he bent forward and coughed into a curled fist. “What the _fuck-”_ came the strained words, thin and reedy.

“It would be wise for you to familiarize yourself with the word _no_ if you are not willing to face the consequences of your actions,” he said coolly.

Matthew raised his head, glowering at the older man. His breath was evening out, less hungry with the steady flow of oxygen though it still sounded like a groan, crushed between an abused throat as he said, “they’ll see the bruises.”

“Wear a scarf.”

“It’s almost _summer._ ”

“Makeup, then.”

Matthew scoffed, beady eyes glistening with the tears that had been squeezed out and gathered along his tear duct, clumping his lashes. He slipped his arm through the loop of the seatbelt, rubbing his neck gently as he pushed open the door.

It slammed closed, the force of it shaking the car, and Hannibal watched as he climbed up the steps to the door of his group home, shoulders slumped in resignation.

He waited until he was gone from sight, disappearing through the door, before shifting the car once more into drive, cutting the wheel to pull back onto the street. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Will insisted on keeping Matthew alive, refusing even to let Hannibal kill him if he was so unwilling to deal the fatal strike. His very existence was on offense to his sensibilities, a toxic and crawling creature that needed to be crushed. Shiny exoskeleton crunching beneath a heel like the vermin he was.

He could always persuade Will, utilize his words and reasoning to smother any fondness or care in the hopes Will would agree. But it would be more satisfying to Will agree in earnest on his own, a desire coming from within to destroy such a noxious miscreant.

He was presenting Will with a gift, and he could only hope it would be appreciated.

~x~

He saw the figure sitting on his doorstep several houses down on his drive home, eyes narrowing as he considered the silhouette from such a distance. It became clearer, more concise the closer his car came to the building despite the darkening sky and though it was his intent to pull into the garage to make transporting Gideon into his basement easier, he pulled the gearshift into park just in front of the mechanical door, turning the engine off as he slid out.

Will was already rising from the stoop, half-hidden in shadows, half-bathed in golden light from the streetlamps casting a halo in front of his house. He hadn’t been expecting Will, and though something warm and bright unfurled in his chest at the sight of him, the anticipatory spike of adrenaline at what dreadful situation led to him driving so far out of his way to come here overwhelmed the delight. Crushed it so that there was an unusual hesitance to his voice as he said, “to what do I owe the pleas-”

The greeting came to an abrupt end, the word strangled in his throat as Will wrapped his arms around him, a loose and tentative embrace. His head bowed, resting against his chest so curls tickled Hannibal’s neck and chin.

Hannibal was not one who ever felt at a loss for words but at the moment he could think of nothing to say, lips parted in the shape of whatever had been readied on his tongue before it was cut short and swallowed. His usual diction and syntax forgotten, replaced instead by the feel of Will in his arms, hands turning into fists as he curled his fingers into the fabric of his jacket, wrinkling the expensive blazer. Each soft exhalation fluttered against the base of his throat and he was slow to return the gesture, arms folding gingerly across Will’s back as if afraid too sudden a movement might shatter whatever illusion this was.

Will was not ordinarily affectionate- or at least, never enough to initiate affection. On the rare occasion he did, it was only because he had been made pliant and vulnerable, seeking comfort from something terrible and Hannibal’s grip tightened marginally as he asked, “is everything alright?”

His mind spun through a handful of sordid possibilities, different scenarios sparking and booming in the center of his thoughts before settling on the most likely. Will had mentioned the authorities were spending the weekend investigating his campus of Noah’s disappearance and perhaps they had a made a misstep, overlooked something that had lead firmly to Will and he ran to Hannibal with no other choice.

It wasn’t ideal, but he was prepared of course. Fake passports readied, emergency funds procured. They would be leaving the states in less than two hours.

“Everything’s fine,” Will said, the words muffled from a mouth that was partially obscured, pressed firmly against Hannibal's chest.

He blinked at the response, at the sight of Will still held in his arms. It wasn’t the answer he was expecting, inspiring only more questions as he rose a hand and clasped it to the crown of Will’s head, fingers entwining in the curls. “Will, is there going to be a body inside my home when I walk through that door?” he asked, voice tilted in humor even if there was a somberness to the question. A very real possibility that Will had once more acted impulsively.

He huffed out a laugh, arms loosening slowly and hands sliding in an arch down Hannibal’s back as he made to pull away. A motion that was aborted when Hannibal only held him tighter, not quite ready to release the hold of him. Selfish, perhaps, but each touch from Will was a gift he cherished, bestowed so little and certainly not for such seemingly little reason. The few embraces they had shared were for comfort, offered in a period of anguish and despair.

It was pleasant to think that one had been given purely for the sake of doing so.

But the paralytic wouldn’t last for long, and each second passed holding Will was another second spent allowing Gideon’s body to breakdown the drug. “You may not have brought a body home, but I did,” he murmured low, frowning when it prompted Will to pull away from him sharply, eyes narrowed as they slanted from him and then to the car.

“Gideon?” he asked, arching a brow.

Hannibal nodded, brushing past Will, and up the steps. He unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside to allow Will entrance. “Would you be so kind as to meet me in the garage? The assistance would be appreciated.”

Will nodded, slipping into the home wordlessly and trailing down the hall- familiar enough with it by now to find his way in the dark. Hannibal closed the door, returning to his car to pull into the garage. Will was already inside by the time the door finished its climb into the ceiling, groaning noisily as the gears shifted in the ascent. The light was flicked on, bathing the garage in a dim glow. It was the sparsest room in his house, serving only as storage and for the transportation of such guests as the one currently sprawling in his trunk.

When the garage door was once more in place, Hannibal stepped out from the car, striding toward the trunk. Will followed behind him, features drawn into one of apprehension, a crinkle between his brows, and with a press of a button on the key fob, the trunk popped open. He eased it up all the way, smirking as Will peered around him to glance at the seemingly unconscious man- wound in the thin blanket from his hospital bed.

“I’ll get his head if you’ll take the feet,” Hannibal directed, Will nodding as he reached to grasp hold of his ankles.

He was silent as they carried Gideon through the home, whatever openness and whimsy that had inspired him to embrace Hannibal gone now. Replaced instead by a furrowed brow and pursed lips; narrowed eyes that were remaining steadfastly low to the ground.

What a strange shift in his decorum- a swift change in his emotions that was unusual for one even as mercurial as Will tended to be. It made unease settle in his stomach, twist uncomfortably. Something was certainly _wrong_ with him, even if he said otherwise.

Taking the steps leading into the basement was a clumsy act, Hannibal so accustomed to doing such a task alone that having another- quite literally- unbalanced him, Will moving too quick and hurrying him along so he stumbled ungainly on his feet. He was relieved when Gideon was finally propped on the hospital bed in the center of the room, the leather straps holding him in place.

“Now that that’s done,” Hannibal began, patting a hand on the top of Gideon’s head before turning to Will and adding, “not that your presence isn’t always a wonderful surprise, I’m just trying to understand exactly why it was just that. A surprise.”

Will blanched at the question, glancing away from Hannibal and up to the metal hooks held aloft in the ceiling. “I know I should have called first, but I didn’t want to. In case I changed my mind.”

Hannibal tilted his head, trying to catch Will’s gaze only for him to avert it once more. An old habit that he had mostly rid himself of- at least with him- and the return of it was fraying at his nerves, pulling at the loose threads of his otherwise manicured facade. “About?”

Will hesitated, the muscles in his jaw twitching with strain as he clenched and released them. He swallowed harshly, the knot in his throat bobbing with the motion, and after several elongated seconds passed he finally said, “I just wanted to talk. In-person.”

“Will Graham, wanting to talk? Has Hell frozen over?” he asked, the tone light and playful even if his veins were quickly being overwhelmed by the rush of something he didn’t quite know. Dread, perhaps. Adrenaline spurred on by that dread.

The Will standing before him- the one that greeted him- was nothing like the Will he understood and it was a dizzying notion. Facets of him- fragmented from a Will that ceased to exist in his company merging with one that had never existed in his company- and it was once more unbalancing.

“I don’t know, are you cold?” Will answered with a huff, and if nothing else, the wry humor was familiar. Endearing.

“Well, whatever it is you’d like to discuss, we can do so now. I just need to set Doctor Gideon up with a catheter and then-”

“I’m not talking about it while you’re putting in a catheter,” Will interrupted, cheeks coloring and lips dragging downward in a frown of repulsion.

Hannibal rose a brow, his curiosity blooming. “If you’re going to be picky about the atmosphere, then why don’t you get started on dinner and I’ll join you once I’ve finished up?” he suggested, turning his back to the younger man as he sifted through the organized cabinets- finding all the necessary tools for his task. “I have some fresh trout in the fridge. I trust you know how to filet it?”

“Of course,” Will answered, the response quickly followed by the tapering sounds of his steps as he marched upstairs. Hannibal twisted to glance at his retreating form, watching as he was bisected by the entrance etched into the ceiling.

Curious.

It never ceased to astound him- all the different ways Will shifted, moving away from his image of him and becoming something new. Always unpredictable, always changing. Alchemical. Will Graham didn’t _talk_. Certainly not about anything he felt was so important it justified driving such a far distance. A matter best handled away from the detached nature of a phone call and unsuitable to be held beneath the buzzing halogen lights and meat hooks of his basement.

He considered the possibility that Will had changed his mind.

About framing Abigail, framing Chilton- all of it or some of it, he was unsure. Perhaps the stress of such a delicate balance of deceit and strategic play had worn too greatly on him and he wished to rescind the idea. Adhere to something simpler or maybe even toss it all aside in favor of his initial, instinctual plan: to run.

His hands stilled in his preparations, recalling the feel of Will in his arms and the trickle of _something_ that seeped into his bones that it might have been a _goodbye hug._

That Will’s intent was to come here for one final visit before leaving under the veil of the night- apologizing for all the trouble, believing himself to be a burden. It was a stifling a thought, one that brought without a chill and a sharp, twisting ache between his ribs.

The familiar ache of loneliness.

He would offer to go with Will- insist that it wasn’t an inconvenience. His time in this life was borrowed- stolen from a man who died in a prison cell in Florence- and he was always aware of a looming though unidentified expiration date. It wasn’t a tether, a trapping he held onto with need. This life was disposable and he would toss it aside without a moment’s hesitation.

Will _wasn’t_ disposable though. Will was very much a trapping and he could only hope that Will would accept his company- that Hannibal would not be reduced to something so pathetic as to beg but he might plea. Would even sink so low as to belittle Will, strike at his confidence in surviving on his own only to piece him back together with the offer of aiding him. Guiding him through a new life that Hannibal could be a part of instead of one separate, one that had turned to ash in his mouth and had lost all its flavor. Turned bitter and sour.

He was thinking ahead, his thoughts moving years into a distant future and he pulled himself back into the present, nimbly affixing the catheter. A curious mix of both an eagerness to return to Will and discover what lead him here, and a hesitancy to do so. A Schrodinger’s sort of moment, lingering in the basement for several seconds longer than necessary,

A moment where Will was simultaneously still in his life and outside of it.

~x~

“I thought you said you knew how to filet it,” Hannibal admonished, standing in the threshold of the pantry with a brow raised. An expression of muted concern that twitched into amusement as he watched Will scowl, a single finger held under the streaming faucet to wash the cut.

“My hands slipped,” he said indignantly- unwilling to admit that his hands didn’t so much slip as they did shake, trembling with the anxiety that sat in his chest, twisting and writhing. The tail had been slippery and his grasp unsteady and it was really more Hannibal’s fault for keeping his knives so sharp.

Hannibal strode across the kitchen, standing beside Will and gently reaching for his wrist. He pulled his hand away from the water, examining the cut along the pad of his thumb with narrowed eyes. Blood beaded up from the seam, pooling and slipping down the curve of his hand. “It’s not deep enough for stitches. Hold it under until the bleeding slows and I’ll wrap it for you,” he said, guiding the hand once more under the water before turning to rifle through his cabinets, the brand of his fingers hot on Will’s skin.

“Perhaps tonight is a good night for you to just observe,” Hannibal quipped, though the humor was mired in something else. Apprehensive and considering, bourbon-colored eyes glancing at Will as if attempting to pull him apart with gaze alone. To dissect and examine him. His gaze then fell to the bottle of whiskey that Will had helped himself to, plucked from the sidebar and deposited into a glass without any consideration for how expensive it might have been. “Are you nervous, Will?”

His initial instinct was to lie, to become defensive and surly when confronted but what a silly and useless notion that was. Hadn’t he come here with the purpose of speaking the truth, in its entirety? To force himself to acknowledge all the things that were contorting within him- like bugs in his brain, burrowing in the soft folds? He hadn’t always thought that there were no secrets between him and Hannibal, the two of them as stripped and raw as one could be but that was false comfort. There were still so many secrets wedged between them and even if Will wasn’t entirely sure of which ones were real and which had been distorted by an unsure and diseased mind, he would at least like to lay them bear.

He was tired of living half-lives.

“Yes,” he answered after a moment, the word pushed out with an exhalation of breath. Hannibal was standing before him again, grabbing his wrist and shutting off the faucet. He pressed gauze pads against the cut, pinching it tightly with his own fingers. His gaze was lowered, leaving only his eyelashes for Will to glance at- each separate curl of the delicate hair arching over his sharp cheekbones.

“Because of what you wanted to talk about?” he asked, tone neutral.

Will hesitated before finally saying, “yes.”

Hannibal hummed, though asked nothing else, silent as he began to wrap Will’s thumb with clean gauze, rolling it several times around until he was satisfied with the thickness. He taped it down in a firm hold, releasing Will’s wrist to clean up the discarded wads of gauze, dark red and saturated.

His silence was oppressive, unnerving- even if Will knew Hannibal was simply being patient, waiting for Will to begin the conversation that had been so important he drove three and a half hours without calling once to have it. It was foolish of him, but he wished the older man would take hold of it, relieve him of the burden of having to say the words.

He stared at Hannibal’s back, silent as he finished the preparations that had come to an early and abrupt end for Will. Fileting the fish with expert hands, tendons straining beneath the skin and he could only watch, transfixed, and held in a moment of uncertainty.

Will knew that Hannibal would say nothing if he were to leave right now. To simply walk from the kitchen and return home as if none of it had happened. He would allow him to step back from the decision, to leave their strange dynamic unexamined and untested. To let it exist as it always had- in a surreal and nebulous balance that defied definition. A strange sort of kindness that he offered Will, a consideration to him that no one had given him before and it was that thought that forced him to say the words. To push them from where they corroded in his chest.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked, regretting it almost immediately as his cheeks colored in humiliation; at the horrifying prospect that he had seen things that weren’t there and was only embarrassing himself now.

It had been pulled from him, ripped from his behind his sternum, and splintering his bones. He hadn’t meant to start the conversation in such a brash way; asking the question that sat like poison on his tongue for so long, but his lips were wet and loosened with the taste of expensive whiskey. He pursed them, pinching them tight as if he might clamp the words back down and lock them behind teeth before Hannibal could hear the carelessly asked question.

A foolish thought, as the words- once spoken- could not be unsaid and Hannibal was already raising his gaze to fix it upon him, the white light of the overhead bulbs reflecting in his eyes. If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it- was perhaps even waiting for the moment Will finally ceased tiptoeing around the subject as if it were landmine in wait.

He blinked once, eyes flicking down as he traced the silhouette with his gaze. “Yes.”

Will inhaled slowly, lungs expanding with the breath. He opened his mouth only to slap it closed, unsure of what to say. He stepped towards the island- closer to Hannibal but also where he had left the drink and his hand curled over the glass, tossing the remaining contents down his throat.

The confession was not as smooth as the alcohol that slid down his throat but it was just as molten, just as burning. It curdled in his belly, frothing as he tried to digest it. He knew it already, but giving voice to it was somehow more certain than his coy play-pretend of ignorance. A thought run astray that could no longer be regarded with denial.

The empty glass made a dull thunk as he settled it back down on the counter, staring at the scant amount of amber liquid the clung to the well. He swallowed thickly, chewing his lip and peeling at the chapped skin. “When?”

“That question isn’t as easy to answer,” Hannibal said after a moment. His body was lax, leisurely resuming his cutting of the cauliflower florets- the fish filets already done and neatly waiting on a cutting board. Yet, there was a rigidity to the motion, muscles strained and taut at the invasive line of questions. Will wondered if he felt vulnerable, dissected, and observed in a way that was all too familiar to him and his unique brain. Like a science experiment, twitching beneath too many eyes. “Have you ever been in love, Will?” he asked, and the question brought with it a panic, blue eyes widening. He raised a hand, amending his question with a quick, “I’m not looking for you to reciprocate, just genuine curiosity in your experiences so far.”

His shoulders loosened from where they were pulled tight. “No, I haven’t. Or I don’t think I have,” he answered, voice quiet and solemn. A twinge of guilt at such a callous response in light of Hannibal’s love for him.

Hannibal wasn’t offended- maybe not even surprised, setting the knife down to pour himself a glass of the whiskey. A more modest glass than the one Will drank and he felt another twinge of guilt. “Perhaps it is because my own experience is so limited, but it is not something I can pinpoint. It doesn’t fit so neatly on a timeline, as these things aren’t linear in nature. You asking me when I first came to understand my feelings for you is like asking when language as we know it came to be. Can one adequately refer to a fixed point in time as if it could be so cleanly divided? As if the sun fell to silence and rose to chatter?” He paused, taking a sip of the drink before setting it down. “It is all at once gradual and sudden. A bit like falling. At the moment, it feels as if it might never end but the actual moments between the drop and collision are mere seconds.”

Will shifted, overwhelmed by the words, the swelling warmth within them. It felt grand in a way he couldn’t name- didn’t believe he deserved. His skin crawled over his bones, like an ill-fitting suit and he pushed himself away from the counter, turning his back on Hannibal as he slunk closer to the doors that spilled out into a small patio. A garden shrouded in shadows.

A grave, he thought, recalling that Noah’s remains had been utilized in compost.

How could a confession of love feel so much like asphyxiation, strangled by the same hands that deigned to hold his heart? His lips twitched, tugged as they pulled into a grimacing smile. “Have you stopped falling yet?” he asked, gritting the words through his teeth and straining them with cold, hollow humor.

It simply didn’t make sense to him- what did Hannibal see when he looked at him that was so worthy, so awe-inspiring? He was undeserving of such devotion and there was a part of him, a crooked and cruel part that wanted to know _why_? What did Hannibal hope to gain from him? To take from him?

He turned at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. “There have been several points where I’ve thought that my descent would end, only to continue to fall,” he said, lips upturning into a slow smile. “Years could pass- have passed- and I don’t think I will ever return to solid ground. I could see you, daily, for the rest of my life, and still feel a pang of hunger for you.”

“Why?” he spat, running a hand through his curls and disheveling them, shifting his weight side to side with the energy that made him erratic. Restless.

Hannibal considered him for a moment, bourbon-colored eyes seeking his own even as Will avoided them- focused on Hannibal’s chin, forehead, ear- anything but the discerning eyes. “You consider yourself unworthy. Mundane, perhaps. I disagree,” was all he offered. He was thankful for that- uncertain if he could handle the sort of praises and sonnets he might craft for him. Talking of him in such undeserved exaltation.

“I just...don’t understand what you want from me,” he spat out, tone acerbic even as something prickled at the corner of eyes. Stinging hotly. He slumped against the thick glass pane of the door, sliding down until he sat on the floor, knees drawn in front of him.

He glanced up at the sound of a knife setting down on the cutting board.

“Is that what you think this is?” Hannibal asked, the words gruff- accent sloping in the hurt threaded through the words. He stepped towards Will, coming to stand before him before dropping into a crouch- an odd position to see the man pull himself into; one Will might have laughed at if his lungs didn’t feel as though they were collapsing. “There are no expectations or assumptions placed on you, Will. I can sustain myself on anything you see fit to offer me. Be it your friendship or something more.”

He inhaled sharply, compressed ribs aching with the motion. “Something _more_? Do...do you want to... _sleep_ with me?”

“Will-” Hannibal began, only for Will to interrupt him.

“I’m not...it won’t make me mad,” he said, swallowing heavily. His mouth felt dry, sore and aching and he regretted leveling himself to a position so far away from the bottle of whiskey left abandoned on the counter. “I’m just...trying to understand. I want to know where we...what you want.”

Hannibal rose a brow. “What do _you_ want?”

“I don’t know!” Will practically shouted, words sputtered and stumbling over his lips. “It’s hard to know what thoughts are my own. I’m trying to figure it out but it’s _hard._ I just thought that if I could _know_ for certain which ones are you, it will be easier to pull them apart from me.” The words tapered into a whine, and he frowned at how pathetic he sounded. Once more wondering _why_ _him?_ What about him did Hannibal want so fiercely when he was such a bundled mess of broken and stilted nerves? “I just don’t understand how or even _why_.”

Hannibal considered him for a moment, lips pursed in thought. He reached a hand out, knuckles brushing across Will’s cheeks and it wasn’t until then that he realized he was crying. He scowled, batting away Hannibal’s hands and wiping furiously at his own eyes, embarrassed at the silent tears.

He sighed, leaning back on his heels and glancing above Will’s head- to the blossoming garden set against the fence of his backyard. “I think you are confused. Perhaps your own perception of yourself is colluding your ability to understand my perception of you. I will not lie in the interest of modesty, so yes. I do want for a more...physical relationship. I look at you and I see nothing but beauty and my first, selfish instinct is to possess and know that beauty- entirely.” He paused, allowing the words to sink and settle, to flutter in the space between them. Will inhaled sharply, a simmering tremble twisting in his gut. He wasn’t surprised by the answer- no more so than he was by the confession of love- but hearing the words was always a different beast to assuming them.

“Understand, Will, that it is not all I see, nor is it my desire to have you _only_ in such a matter. Or in that manner at all, if you don’t want it. In fact, my carnal hunger for you is the one I am less moved by. How can it be, when you have such a wondrous mind? When I starve for your company and conversations and attentions? I’m sure your touches are extraordinary, and I would consider it the most precious gift if it were bestowed on me, but my hunger is sated in other means.” His voice was soft, warm with such adoration. There was no veil now, no restraint offered now that the secret had spilled and each uttered syllable was spoken with such a magnitude of love and reverence that Will felt weak beneath it. Not quite strong enough to bear the weight of such love.

Will said nothing, mouth opening several times only to clamp close, swallowing the half-formed words he could not say. What could he say? Everything felt unsubstantial when held against Hannibal’s words.

Seeing Will’s struggle, Hannibal added, “You asked me what I want with you. All I want- all I _need-_ is to know you and to cherish you. Anything beyond that would be at your discretion.”

There was relief at the admittance. Tense muscles slowly loosening and Will finally managed to grasp onto a coherent enough thought to speak. He licked his lips, voice hoarse as he asked, “And what if...what if I don’t want anything beyond? Beyond friendship. Would you be...content?”

Hannibal’s frown was somber, though not at the thought of Will’s words but the implication within them. “You say that as if your companionship is a consolation prize. It is not and I would be content.”

“And if...I do want it...want like...s-sex and stuff...but with someone else? Would you try to kill them?” It was a hard question to ask, but an important one. A need to know if Hannibal’s touch would be respectful but still possessive.

He was slower to answer- as if struggling between honesty and the placating lie he knew Will would want to hear. After a moment, he said, “I would want to. But no, not if I knew it would make you pull away from me.”

There was a loophole within the words- an unspoken promise that he might kill them for other reasons but at least not selfish ones. Not solely to keep Will for his own and he supposed that for now, it was enough. He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes as he asked, “and...what if...I want it...with you?”

Hannibal smiled, but there was something morose in the gesture. Sorrowful, as if he was already mourning the possibility of having to let Will go in such a manner. Forced to watch him love and live beside another. “As I’ve said, the most precious gift but one I don’t expect.”

He reached forward once more, though this time his hand slid to the back of Will’s head, fingers entangling in his curls and he pressed against him, beckoning Will to bow his head. He did, and Hannibal leaned forward on his heels to press a kiss against his forehead, warmth radiating across his skin at the contact. He murmured something into the soft locks, the whisper of a language Will didn’t recognize yet understood immediately as the ghost of the utterance brushed across his scalp. Some languages did not need to be translated to be understood, a confession of love sounding the same in each language even if the words were different.

Too soon, he was pulling away, the air cold in the absence of his touch. “Do you feel better, then? Or is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

Will glanced up at him, blinking slowly and chewing the question in thought. His cheeks were feverish and ruddy from tears, and the proclamations of love offered by Hannibal had been...grander than he anticipated. Wholly consuming, in a manner that he never fathomed would see himself the subject of. He felt like an impostor of a god with an earnest devotee, the reverence larger than the thing it was bestowed upon.

Yet, despite the oppressiveness of its weight, there was a relief in knowing Hannibal expected nothing of Will. A relief wrought with guilt- as if it were wrong of him not to offer anything in return- and there was a dark, unfair voice that cooed in the back of his skull that it was a relief that would not last long. That even love as fierce as the one Hannibal claimed to possess might be sullied by greed.

But he did believe Hannibal.

Perhaps that was naivety on his part; inexperience turning him into the wide-eyed innocent that would be mauled by a hungry predator who lied about the size of its teeth despite Will seeing the fangs himself. Hannibal had an enormous capacity for cruelty, and it would be unwise to forget that.

But it was just as likely he had a proportional capacity of love, and he would indulge in it just as he indulged in the other. And, in hindsight, he had all the answers before him. Things he hadn’t noticed but now seemed startlingly clear.

Hannibal deferred to Will- allowing him to take the first steps into different aspects of their relationship.

Hannibal was tactile; he enjoyed the assurance of touch and the silent expression of words passed from skin to skin. But his touches were always slow movements Will could step away from and they were never more intimate than a gentle caress. Rarely did they hug; his cheeks colored at the thought of the awkward and clumsy tossing of his arms around Hannibal’s waist only moments earlier but Hannibal’s return of the embrace was firm. As if it was something he longed for and would languish in for as long as it would last, tightening when Will let his arms fall. Something he had wanted but would wait until Will offered it.

There were a few moments- more intimate even than an embrace. But they were years ago, given in comfort when Will had dissolved into a fit of panic. And even then, Will asked for most of them. Crawling into Hannibal’s lap and then his bed after they first killed together. Opportunities he could have taken advantage of but never did. He didn’t so much as return a press of his mouth when Will had leaned forward and given a ghost of a kiss to blood-stained lips.

In fact, the only time Hannibal had taken the lead was once to pull him onto his lap and hold him- and it was only after Will had attempted to initiate something far more intimate.

“I...yes. I feel better,” he said when too much time had passed that he needed to say something to break the stillness between them; pull himself from the memories. “Thank you.”

“Good,” he said, lips twisting into a smile as he rose to a stand, reaching down to pull Will up as well. He kept a hand on the small of his back, guiding him to the armchair fitted in the corner of the kitchen. Will slumped into it, leaning back and letting his eyes fall to Hannibal’s hands as he resumed cooking. Soothed, almost, by the familiar motion of his fingers curling over the handle of a knife; collecting and depositing the chopped vegetables and aromatics into small bowls.

They fell into silence, broken only by the chop of a knife against the treated wood of a cutting board; the sizzle of the dredged filets of fish into the heated pan. A familiar routine, sitting in the kitchen, the rich and decadent aromas wafting around him.

He thought, once more, of the night they killed Sutcliffe, the words Hannibal had spoken to him when he was stilled in the hold of fear. _You’re in control,_ he had said. _Everything that happens now will be because it’s what you want to happen. Nobody else._

An alarmingly different scenario, yet the sentiment rang true. There was power in killing someone- it was undeniable. Obvious, even- a silly thing to have to voice. It was what drove so many to kill, the euphoric high an addiction, reveling in the feel of a life held in your hands and the control of if or when that life might come to an end.

It had never occurred to him that there could be so much power in love; a dichotomy to the violence and brutality of murder though no less devastating. A proverbial heart in the hand just as delicate- if not more so- than the corporeal heart in the chest. A thousand different ways to kill someone without once having to raise a blade and it was a steadying thought.

If Hannibal’s love for him was oppressive, then the power it gave him was at least a balancing force, maintaining an equilibrium between them that he clutched at.

He felt- for the first time in a long time- as if he might be standing on solid ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal at the beginning of the chapter: if Will is here to say he's leaving me, I will kill everyone in this room and then myself  
> Hannibal at the end: Oooh, he just found out I'm gay lol good thing I didn't overreact. 
> 
> Next up: Will heads home; Hannibal heads to a crime scene


	13. Invitation

**Chapter Twelve: Invitation**

“Will you be staying the night?”

Will glanced up from the plate in his hand, slowing the drag of the dishcloth across it at the question. They were standing side by side- Hannibal washing dishes and passing them along to Will to dry- a routine that both soothed Will by the stillness of it, broken only by the running faucet, and unnerved him; the sheer domesticity of it all overwhelming in such a new light.

The entire night had fallen into something domestic, really. An evening some might call mundane if they were not made aware of the shackled prisoner in the basement and the emotional conversation that it began with. It was disorienting how quickly Will had gone from sitting on the floor with tears in his eyes to sitting at the dining room table, chatting about his classwork. His stomach had been twisted in knots and the thought of eating food felt akin to torture but the moment he was sat in front of a plate and allowed himself to slip into the familiar comfort he ate voraciously. Finishing his food too quickly and being too embarrassed to ask for seconds; he was grateful for the silent way Hannibal refilled his plate as Will animatedly discussed an article he read for a class about the effect of aroma compounds in dog food to increase their appetite that reminded him of the older man.

The conversation followed into other prominent articles, Hannibal relaying some he read on his own that might be of interest to Will and the entirety of the meal struck him once more with the depth of his adoration. That as grand as his declarations of love had been, there was something to be said about the smaller, more humble notions of it. The silent _I love yous_ that were expressed by ladling more food onto another’s plate when they're hungry; reading articles that had nothing to do with your interest but wanting something to share- words to pass along to each other.

The simple actions, like when his dad would eat handfuls of dry cereal for breakfast because they had run low on milk and he was saving it for Will.

It made him feel warm and content in a way he wished to savor, to hold between his hands and stow away for safekeeping. And he could think of no better way to end the evening than to crawl into bed beside Hannibal- on sheets that were entirely too expensive and in clothing that wasn’t his.

Yet, it didn’t seem like a fair thing to do. Even if Hannibal insisted that he was satisfied with nothing more than companionship, it didn’t seem fair to blur the lines between them in such a way. Assuming a half-role in his life as something he wasn’t sure he wanted, acting like a lover when it was convenient to him.

“No, I think I’m going to go home,” he said, setting the plate aside and accepting the fork Hannibal held out between them. “Some people have noticed I disappear a lot, and it will probably be good to have at least a couple alibis.”

Hannibal nodded, his tone matter of fact as he agreed. “Your dogs have probably missed you as well.” Will smiled at the thought the dogs, the warm and furry bodies that would press against him, fighting for space in his own bed and it was its own source of comfort. A different one from one offered in Hannibal’s bed but still one he would delight in.

“It will be nice to see them, if only for a little bit. My dad, too.”

Hannibal shut the faucet off as he passed the remaining knife to Will, reaching for a spare dishcloth to dry his hands. “Do you plan to leave for school tomorrow morning? Or might I convince you to spend another meal with me before you depart?”

Will blinked at him, tilting his head to the side as he set the fork down- knowing Hannibal would probably wipe them down once more when he saw what a poor job Will did. “Dinner?”

“I’ll be making _Roti de Cuisse_ if you’re interested.” He grinned, the edges of his crooked teeth revealed between the pink lips. “I know it’s out of your way and will only extend your drive by a few unnecessary hours, but I would appreciate your company and will prepare to have dinner earlier than usual so you won’t be driving all through the night.”

Will snorted, raising a brow as he glanced at the slate floors at his feet. “Roasted thigh, huh? Sounds delicious,” he answered, offering Hannibal a small smile.

His eyes gleamed. “Excellent. Does five work for you?”

He nodded, and they fell into silence, cleaning up the remnants of their dinner. Wiping the counters so that the steel surfaces shimmered beneath the overhead light, the rich and decadent aromas of fish and rosemary on roasted fingerling potatoes dulling, replaced by the sharp chemical smell of citrus from the cleaner.

Eventually, the time came for Will to leave, Hannibal guiding him to the foyer, hands settled neatly into his pockets as Will’s own hands twisted in his shirt. Discomfort shifting within him once more at the thought of having to say _goodbye_ as if the rules had changed somehow.

“I didn’t see your car. Did you park down the street?” Hannibal asked, adding, “would you like me to walk with you?” when Will gave a jerky nod.

He licked his lips, teeth following the motion and dragging across the chapped skin. “N-no. I’ll be fine,” he answered, slanting his gaze to stare at the balustrade of the stairs, finding the amber-threaded eyes too discerning.

“Will, I hope that things won’t be awkward between us now that you know of my feelings for you.”

His eyes pinched closed, a sputtering sigh pushing past his lips. When he reopened them, he forced himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “I’m just...overthinking it, I know,” he said, resisting the pull to scowl when Hannibal’s eyebrows rose, eyes glinting with humor and an unspoken joke at Will’s expense. “I just need to...sort some stuff out. But it will be easier now that I know-”

He let the sentence sit between them, amputated and unfinished as he rose a hand, spreading the fingers and making a flourishing gesture between them. As if such a gesture could encapsulate his intent, the meaning of all the words he couldn’t say. _Now that he knew what Hannibal wanted- what he expected_. Certain and fixed points he could stabilize himself to in order to determine where he sat in regards to them.

Hannibal hummed. “Of course. While we’re here, are there any more questions you’d like to ask? To help you sort it out?” His tone was sincere, and Will hesitated, flicking his gaze across the entranceway.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It wasn’t the question Hannibal expected him to ask, and he considered Will for a moment, eyes shining as he chose his words with great care. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

Will snorted, running a hand through his curls. “Load of good that did. I’ve spent the past like five days in a permanent panic attack.”

His lips twitched, resisting the pull into a smile. No doubt understanding the reason for Will’s avoidance of his calls, perhaps even pinpointing the moment Will made his realization. “You didn’t have to wait so long to ask. I will always be honest with you.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “I know, that was why I waited.” The soft-spoken words sat between them, the words he did not say hidden within them; tucked in the consonants and vowels. The fear and dread that coiled within him threading through the letters.

Hannibal pursed his lips, taking a slow step forward. He stood close enough that Will had to raise his chin to meet his gaze, startlingly aware of how much smaller he was than him, inches feeling more like feet. He forced himself to remain rooted, to not take a step back. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think you had to behave a certain way. There are many aspects to our already unconventional relationship that skew the balance in my favor. It’s hard to ignore, and I suppose I wanted you to at least have the power of deciding where to move from here.”

Will nodded, licking his lips. “Like...our ages?”

“Yes. And my role as your former psychiatrist. All scales tipped in my favor,” he explained with a slow nod.

“I assaulted you with a gun and blackmailed you. I think that evens the scales a little,” Will mumbled, huffing out a soft laugh.

Hannibal didn’t laugh, eyes dark and the ends of his mouth tipping down into a frown. “Not enough. Not for my liking at least.”

Will mirrored it, his decorum faltering. His heartbeat heavy against his ribs, stomach contorting and he swallowed thickly, lowering his gaze. He stared at his hands as he spoke, unable to meet Hannibal’s as he licked his lips and said, “You’re not...you’re not like him. I...I know when we first...before everything, I said you were. And I never apologized for it, but I should have. Because you’re not and it wasn’t fair to say.”

A silence followed- uncomfortable, the words from so long ago made sharp and pointed, returning to them with fervor. As if they were transported, dragged back into a time when the ease of their companionship had yet to be forged. When their interactions were still mired in distrust, punctuated by threats made over the barrel of a gun and pressed against a wall.

It wasn’t a time Will wished to go back to and he cleared his throat, raising his gaze to find Hannibal’s own.

“I’m sorry,” he added, mouth twitching as it pulled into a solemn smile.

“You weren’t wrong to say it,” Hannibal began, his tone thick with something somber, sloping heavily with his words. “While I can’t say I regret the culmination of our individual and joint actions that lead to you being a part of my life, I do wish there had been less...similarities regarding the method. But thank you for saying that.”

Will's smile was less tentative, more certain at the words and before he could allow himself to overthink it, he reached forward, a slow hand curling around Hannibal’s waist as he sidled closer. Another embrace- though a partial one, one arm wound around him while the other hung limply at his side, his head resting against the firm chest. The fabric of his suit was warm and smooth, buttery against his skin, and he sighed at the delicate tousle of fingers weaving through his curls, a kiss once more pressed against his crown.

An anointment, he thought wryly.

“I’ll see you for dinner,” he said, pulling away from Hannibal and taking a step back, a hand reaching behind him to curl around the door handle.

“I’ll see you then,” Hannibal returned, hands slipping into his pockets once more.

Will left, forcing himself to close the door and march down the darkened street, highlighted only by the streetlamps and the silver glow of the moon to guide his path.

~x~

The farmhouse was dark as Will approached, windows offering only shadows and he crossed along the side of the house to enter through the kitchen, hoping the quieter door wouldn’t pierce the silence too heavily. That he could sneak in without disrupting the household and rousing his dad from sleep.

Wishful thinking, he realized, pushing the door open to a riot of barking, clawed paws scampering noisily across wooden floors and bodies bumping into walls in their haste to discover the source of the sound. Any irritation he might have felt at having his plans so thoroughly dashed- a light flicking on as his dad awoke and marched through the halls to follow the dogs- dissolved at the sight of them, dropping to his knees only two feet from the door to greet each one of the excited mutts.

Scratching tongues lapped at his hands and face, paws settling on his thighs as they bounced around him. It was overwhelming in the best way possible, not nearly enough hands to go around as he tried to pet each dog in turn, sparing them all equal affection.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted, his smile almost painful as it stretched across his face. “Did you miss me? I missed all of you.” The floor creaked, the kitchen light flicking on and Will glanced up, grinning sheepishly at his dad. “Sorry, I should have called,” he said, gaze slanting to the shotgun held loosely at his dad’s side, lowered when he realized the only intruder for the evening was his son.

“Jesus, Will, I could have shot you,” William said, setting the gun on the table- opened bills, fliers, and invoices from his business strewn across the surface. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes, shoving away the remains of sleep before his lips curled into a languid smile. Zoe- perhaps having given up on trying to fight the larger, more insistent dogs- had leaped up on her hind legs- paws dragging against the flannel bottoms William wore as she yapped at him, tongue lolling from her mouth. “Yes, I know, I see him.”

Offering one final round of pets- his hand and clothes covered in a fine layer of dog fur- Will rose to his feet. “I was trying to be quiet, for what it’s worth.”

William chuckled, crooking a brow. “Did you forget about the army of dogs?” he asked, smiling at Will’s noncommittal shrug. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have classes in the morning?”

“I can miss a day,” Will answered, stepping further into the kitchen and leaning against a counter. He folded his arms over his chest, frowning as he added, “The police came and talked to everyone about the kid who disappeared and I guess I...it just upset me, is all. I wanted to come home.”

William frowned, his mouth opening as if to say something only to clamp close, a strangled grunt pulled from his throat. He forced himself to smile, an insincere action that didn’t meet his eyes- etched in more wrinkles than Will remembered, age slowly threading through his visage. “Well, It’s always good to see you. Too quiet around here without you. When you planning on going back?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll leave in the afternoon so I have time to get some work done before bed. Probably stop for dinner at McDonald’s or Taco Bell,” he answered, suppressing a smirk at the lie. He doubted Hannibal would care for the comparison, even if in favor of covering his tracks- obscuring a relationship that would be examined too closely in the next coming weeks.

The pompous man would sooner turn himself in than remain quiet in presence of such an insult.

“Well, it’s late- and I _was_ sleeping,” William said, giving a pointed look to the dogs that had settled on the floor, tongues flopping from panting mouths. Winston was a firm weight on Will's feet, head leaning against the point where his ankles crossed. “I’m heading back to bed, but how does breakfast sound in the morning? We can go to the diner.”

“That sounds nice. I’m just going to take a quick shower before bed.”

“Alright,” William started, turning from the kitchen only to stop short, gaze low as he pointed to one of the dogs- the most recent addition to the pack, though still well cemented within the home for a few years, perching herself primly beside Will, balanced on her three paws. “And do me a favor and consider bringing that one back with you if you can.”

Will grinned, lowering himself to pet at the soft fur growing in tufts by her ears. “She _still_ hasn’t warmed up to you yet?”

“I’m going to invest in a muzzle. At least she stopped fighting with the others though,” he muttered, sparing a final good night and a fond smile before finally departing the room, the stairs croaking with his ascent.

“Don’t listen to him, Bernie, you’re a sweet girl,” he murmured, lowering his hand so she could lap at his palm, tongue warm and wet.

It took more time than he cared to admit to get into the shower, the dogs following at his heels and a strong force that pressed against the door of the bathroom, refusing to let him out of their sight. Several attempts were made, failing to close the door before a dog inevitably wandered in- Buster was particularly spry- but eventually he managed, the distinct thump of a large body pressing up against the closed door in defeat.

_What pathetic saps_ , he thought with a fond smile, tugging his clothes off quickly as he waited for the shower to warm.

The water was loud as it reverberated off the tiles of the shower, the fan an unpleasant whir of sound. Steam billowed around him, the air in the small bathroom heavy and thick- fog clouding the mirror. Despite the tumult, it was a welcome reprieve- a solace in a day that had been fraught and disjointed. The heat seeped into him, unwinding the tension in his muscles, and the sensation of the water as it rippled down the flesh of his back was a soothing one.

There was a ritual to these things, the simple act of washing a cleansing of more than just the layer of dirt and sweat that accumulated throughout the day. A cleansing of his thoughts, the overwhelming blare becoming quieter and quieter.

He didn’t regret confronting Hannibal. He was right to think that knowing where Hannibal stood would help him find his own footing; clear away some of the clutter so he could disentangle himself.

The act of disentangling was not as easy as he might have liked though.

It would be easy enough to continue their relationship without further examination. Moving as they always had as companions, co-conspirators in their crimes and guardians of the other’s sins. There was no reason to blur the line, to add anything more to it that might complicate it- might add too much pressure than it could bear.

He could admit he found comfort in Hannibal’s presence- it would be a useless, pathetic lie to say otherwise. He would not slink to his bed, break into his home if that weren’t the case, turning to the older man for guidance in times when he needed it. And he could also admit being with Hannibal was the only time he felt the most like himself. Content in his own scarred and pale skin instead of cramming himself within the confines of an ill-fitting suit; a well-worn disguise.

He existed in fragments; the part of him that existed for the world at large- the one his dad knew, the one Callie was attracted to. A disingenuous one, obscuring the fragment was more him, the one that would horrify and frighten others.

Everyone except Hannibal, of course.

And there was something to be said that Hannibal’s claim of love included such a jagged, tarnished fragment. That the sliver of himself in its truest form was loved as wholly as the more manufactured ones. Even if the veil separating him from the world were to slip and he would be seen by all for the monster he was, at least Hannibal would still adore him. At least he would be unchanged in his mind, just as lovely with bared teeth and blood as he was in his armor of flannel and glasses.

A comfort that Hannibal himself could turn to; even if Will’s feelings for him- _whatever they were-_ were not the same sort of love, it was a version of it. If the police were to arrive in his home in Baltimore this very evening and discover the unconscious man in the blood-stained basement and the meat in the fridge and Hannibal Lecter was arrested, his face splattered over every television screen in the country for his heinous crimes- Will would still have that version of love for him. He would be just as unchanged in his mind as Will was in his, even if his former colleagues and friends distanced from him. Rebuked their friendship with horror, Will would hold it in his hands, keep it near and warm.

There was a part of him- an insidious, cruel part- that told him that was why Hannibal loved him. That Will was safe and it was a matter of convenience.

He silenced the thought. How could he believe it when he heard the confession with his own ears? Had been exalted by a man who knew himself and accepted himself with complete self-awareness. He was as self-actualized as a person could be and he would know the difference between love for a person and love for their role.

And he loved Will.

Loved him enough to have a future drawn-out, prepared, and readied. Evenings spent in museums and in the private balconies of theaters grander than he ever imagined seeing. Loved him enough to be prepared to spend the rest of his life with Will, parading him around Europe and showing him all the beautiful and wondrous things he could.

It was easy to admit here, in the shower- surrounded by the sound of water droplets beating against porcelain and choking on the smell of drugstore shampoo- that the promise of such a life appealed to him.

That Will could shed his disguise permanently, existing only as the part of him that longed to flourish. And, more than anything, he _enjoyed_ Hannibal’s company. He enjoyed their conversations and their banter and the easy silences they settled into. He could so easily envision a life lived together that it was almost staggering, routines and domesticity establishing itself as easily as it had tonight. In all the other nights they spent together.

Truly, the hardest piece to imagine was a dog or two fitting into the image, but it wasn’t impossible. In fact, the thought of the man painstakingly searching for a breeder for a purebred canine came to him with comical speed, biting his tongue to quiet his laugh at the thought of Hannibal attempting to train a greyhound or a Chow Chow.

It was _easy_ to imagine a life such as that, finding it more comforting than the thought of him living on his own, surrounded by strays and clumsily trying to fit another person into the fold.

After all, how happy would he truly be if he were constantly donning his armor around Callie or whoever else might take her space in the future? Unable to be himself even within the walls of his own home?

But as easy as it was to admit to such an assessment, it was less easy to admit- or rather, confront- other aspects, the sound of his heavy swallow dimmed by the water beating against him. 

That comfort and enjoyment in the presence of another did not necessarily equate to romantic love. But how would he contend the two lives? Would he simply continue to live in fragments, with only Hannibal knowing the true pieces of him? Slipping between Hannibal's home and his own- a place that felt cold and foreign when he could not exist within its wall as he was, with a partner that would never accept him? Or would he forego the possibility of romantic love entirely in favor of being whole- fragmented no more? Letting his companionship with Hannibal be enough to satisfy him?

And of the unspoken third option?

The one that made his cheeks color at the thought, something neither pleasant nor unpleasant writhe in his chest at the thought?

That one brought with it a whole new torrent of considerations, things that seemed impossible to surmount.

He could objectively say that Hannibal was attractive. A bit too polished for Will’s liking, but in the few instances he had seen him with his hair loose and without product, dressed in softer clothes than the straight lines and angles of his suit, he could appreciate his beauty more thoroughly. The chiseled contours of his face and the warm gaze in his amber and honey eyes that Will now understood to be adoration and there was a pleasing hum in his chest at the thought that he looked at Will in a way reserved only for him. That he and he alone knew how soft his sharp and calculating gaze could be.

But Hannibal was also _broad_ , decidedly masculine in a way that filled Will’s chest with dread at the thought, stomach as heavy as iron, the anticipatory taste of bile already thick on his tongue. He was larger than Will, stronger than him, and the thought of the hard planes of his body pressing against Will’s own made panic clutch at him, twist like fingers winding around his heart.

So different from the few dalliances of Will’s past- young women with soft curves, supple skin over soft bellies; dimpled thighs, and small, pert breasts. There was something intimidating about the thought of being with Hannibal in a more intimate way, and how would he ever know it was what he wanted when the shape of him was too similar to something that had for so long been associated with pain and fear?

How could he agree to something without knowing if he could manage it? Without knowing whether or not he would freeze at the sight of him?

He was no prude, either. He was well aware of the myriad of sexual deviances and kinks that existed and Hannibal was a sadist- what if the desire to torture, to draw pleasure from pain, extended into the bedroom? He enjoyed making Will and others squirm with indignation and the thought of Hannibal wanting to humiliate Will- to _hurt_ him- for pleasure was enough to make him bend at the waist, hands bracing himself on his knees and stomach churning with the force of his dry-heaving.

Hannibal said he would be content in a relationship without sex but would he really? Would he truly be willing to give up something so natural all for the sake of Will’s comfort? Or would he satisfy his hunger in other ways, with other people?

His stomach twisted once more at the thought, a confusing mix of jealousy for people and situations which did not even exist and he let his body drop. Dropping to his bottom on the floor of the tub as he rose his knees and pressed his forehead against them.

_That_ wasn’t something Will would want. Even if it was unfair and cruel, he wouldn’t want such an agreement. To only half-possess someone, unable to fit with them in all the ways to make them happy and complete.

And Will didn’t hate the idea of sex- or even the idea of sex with Hannibal necessarily. It was the inability to perform he hated, the memories that flooded to him unbidden, and the feel of a feminine body melding around his own was enough for his mind to contort in panic. For his body to stubbornly refuse to cooperate and how was he supposed to manage sex with someone distinctly _male_?

Hannibal had suggested _meditation_ and he bit back a snort at the thought of it. Masturbation was hardly a more pleasant task than sex was- a chore in its own right that he dreaded and often avoided, crawling close enough to orgasm that when he inevitably choked the ache that followed was more painful than the one that drove him to act in the first place. There was a limited success rate- small enough that it was typically easier to just wait for the situation to sort itself out than to try to satisfy it, risk the frustration and pain that came with his unsuccessful attempts.

How was he supposed to meditate when he was too busy trying to get it over with, hoping he could manage to climax before the fear outweighed the pleasure he could ring out?

How was he supposed to meditate _at all_ during such a task?

It was unfair, bitterness turning sour in his veins that

He was being held hostage by a ghost; a man who was long since dead and rotting in the ground still holding ownership over him.

He wanted- _needed_ \- to take himself back.

~x~

Jack was yelling when Hannibal arrived on the floor of the hospital- the deep resonating boom of his voice reverberating off the linoleum floor and sparsely decorated walls. The command was indistinguishable, distorted by its own echo, but Hannibal did not need to hear the words to know what was causing the man such frustration.

Abel Gideon was, as far as the FBI was concerned, on the run once more; a deadly fugitive armed with several stolen guns and an unfinished list of those he wanted to kill.

A trill of delight trembled down his spine, and he heard the tail end of the shouting as he turned around the corner, ducking beneath the yellow police tape.

“-supposed to be on a plane in six hours to close the case of a murderer whose killer is still on the loose, and you’re telling me you don’t have anything?! Not a single scrap of evidence? Not even a blurry photo of the direction he went in?!” Jack yelled, the words strained through the snarling lips and bared teeth, a prominent vein protruding across his forehead. Spit flung like acid from his lips and Doctor Katz frowned, arms folded over her chest as she rose a brow at the anger.

“What do you want me to do, Jack? The whole security system’s corrupted, the only thing I can say for sure is he’s got three guns,” she countered.

Jack sputtered, arms raising before they slapped against his thighs, sliding up to rest on his hips. “The system is corrupted? How the hell does it get corrupted and no one notices a damn thing?”

“It’s a hospital, not a prison,” was all she offered, lips pinching tightly- perhaps to clamp down on words that teetered the delicate line, fell into something one might call insubordination.

Jack opened his mouth, though whatever he had been preparing to say was swallowed, amputated from his tongue as Hannibal approached, drawing his attention with a firm greeting. Doctor Katz sighed, muttering a _thank God_ as she turned on her heel and quickly departed.

“Doctor Lecter, thanks for coming,” he said, his tone weary. Pinched in exhaustion and righteous rage.

“Of course. I’m always willing to offer my assistance when needed,” he said, pausing as he glanced at the chaos unfurling around him- forensic pathologists making quick work of the scene, as open-and-shut a case as there was. Abel Gideon had attacked the single guard outside of his room after catching the locking mechanism of his handcuffs, and killed the two police officers with the stolen gun- a nurse caught in the carnage. “Though, I’m unsure what exactly I can assist with here. Do we not suspect Doctor Gideon of producing his own escape?”

Jack waved a dismissive hand. “No, I didn’t call you here for that. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind helping out elsewhere. Now that Gideon’s escaped- _again,”_ he said acerbically, tendons of his throat straining with the grit of his words, “I’m stretched a bit thin, here. I was supposed to bring Abigail to Minnesota today. See if we can jostle a few memories loose by bringing her home and to her dad’s hunting cabin. Obviously, that’s not going to happen now.”

Hannibal frowned, letting his gaze slant along the crime scene. The room he had stolen Abel from only hours early now a flurry of activity, yellow evidence tags sitting beside a pool of blood- rust-colored handcuffs pinched between gloved fingers and lowered into an evidence bag. Jack certainly had a lot to contend with- trying to close a stubborn cold case- a young woman’s life and freedom balanced on his investigation; trying to solve a violent murder and now, an escaped convict.

He would collapse, crumble with the weight of the world when the Ripper once more made himself known; when the tableau was left on display and the realization that he was being toyed with- taunted by the killers he hunted- became undeniable.

“You would like me to escort Abigail?”

“You and Doctor Bloom, as well as an FBI agent,” he corrected, rubbing the heel of his palm along his brow. “She’s relatively fresh out the academy but has a good head on her shoulders. Good intuition. Until we know how involved Abigail was with her father’s crimes, I don’t like the idea of not having an agent along for the ride. Can you do that?”

“Of course, but I’m afraid today is a little short notice,” he said, his thoughts turning to the man in his basement- the very one driving Jack to the end of a shortening rope; the same rope which would form the noose around his neck. “Perhaps Doctor Chilton can go in my place until I get my affairs in order?”

Jack scowled, his disdain for the arrangement writ on his face but he nodded twice, rubbing at his chin. “Alright. I’ll give him a call. You think you can be in Minnesota by tomorrow? Catch a noon flight in time to be there in the late afternoon?”

He would be there earlier, in the morning hours. Early enough to leave a gift seated on a crown of antlers; a gift that would only complicate the matter, send Jack further into a tailwind as he scrambled to keep track of the killers moving beneath him. The chaos that seemed without order, without control to anyone but the man who designed it.

He nodded. “Yes, that should give me adequate time to call my patients. Thank you for being understanding of my schedule, Jack.”

Jack only grunted in response, turning from Hannibal with little more as he disappeared into the hospital room- a trail of shouting following his departure.

He didn’t linger for too long at the crime scene, retracing his own steps with muted, amused interest and asking several questions under the guise of concern when Doctor Katz emerged once more. There was little use for psychological analysis, and any loitering would seem like rubbernecking at best and though he generally enjoyed trailing along the bedlam left in his wake, he was less inclined to do so now.

The few hours of sleep he managed to get before he was roused were not nearly enough to sustain him for the enduring hours of the day- the plans he now had to prepare, further traps to set that would sink like metal teeth into Chilton’s ambling gait. And of course, it would hardly be proper to invite someone to dinner only to cancel on them.

The thought of Will was another matter entirely, and he skewed his lips as he slipped down the halls of the hospital once more- the sound and clamor of the investigation dimming with each step. In hindsight, it seemed clear now what strange mood had struck Will several days ago- prompting him to avoid Hannibal and become aloof in a way that inspired irritation; Will was aloof to most people, but Hannibal liked to think himself one of the few- if not a singular- who managed to earn the entirety of the young man. His distance and surliness acted as a wall to keep the rest of the world out, though such a charade was dropped in Hannibal’s presence. No pretenses or secrets between them.

Or at least, there weren’t any _now_. Now that Will had realized just how deep his affection ran for him and had- remarkably, really, considering his habit of avoidance- confronted him on the matter.

Even if he had been made privy to Will’s thought- had known when the discovery was made- he never would have surmised that Will would be the one to broach the subject. He had a tendency to let things rot, to fester within him and he supposed there was a gleam of something to be found in the fact that Will chose _this_ of all things to not let corrode. Something he might consider hope.

He had meant what he said, of course. He prided himself in many things but his restraint was one of his prouder facets. He was not, typically, impulsive and he understood the merits of patience. He would wait for Will if he asked him to. Nourish himself on whatever Will offered if that was what he wanted. He had been given a gift, after all, and it would be impudent and reckless to squander such a gift for base desires.

He had never subscribed himself to the romantic ideations of love at first sight- to the notion of soul mates. They were, like most fanciful concepts, a balm to make the bitter ache of life more tolerable. A facet of theology, a religion in the temple of love that offered more for the supplicant than it did the god that he often ventured did not exist- even if he found the idea of one enthralling.

But he had, as of late, given new thought on the matter. Where once he would have frowned at the insinuation that he was anything less than a whole entity on his own, he now found himself endeared to the concept that he might only be half, made whole by another.

He hadn’t been surprised by how overwhelmed Will became- he suspected as much, even. A bevy of trauma that left an indelible mark on his brain. Similarities too hard to ignore and there was misplaced anger burning within him- it was useless to feel anger for the dead but he felt it all the same.

Still, there was comfort in knowing Will hadn’t pulled away entirely from him- wasn't too distraught from the weight of his affection to want to continue any association with him. There was, he dared to say, even an ease in him as he left, offering another embrace even if it was clear it was an action he pushed himself to do before he could think too heavily on it. Allowing his instinct to take control for one of the first times in his life.

Hannibal was, by all accounts, in a rapturous mood, and the dinner that sat like a promise at the end of the day was one he waited for earnest. Moreso even than the promise of traveling to Minnesota and building the foundation of Chilton's scaffold.

He would reward Will by offering him his surprise, and he was eager to see it all unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you get when you cross three cannibalistic serial killers with another serial killer who would rather be watching 90 Day Fiance than be where he is? Hannibal’s next dinner party.
> 
> Also, the next chapter- stayed tuned folks. 
> 
> (Did you think I was kidding that the last dinner party scene was just the first of many more awkward, sexually charged ones? Your mistake)


	14. Conniving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Aggressively points to the ‘Sexual Tension’ tag.*
> 
> (Also, sorry if I'm delayed in responding to reviews, I was really eager to post this as this is one of my favorite scenes lol)

**Chapter Thirteen: Conniving**

Hannibal opened the door soon after the melodic ding of the doorbell came to an end, smiling wide and stepping aside to allow Will entrance. “Thank you for joining me for dinner, Will. I appreciate you coming out of your way for it,” he greeted, hands reaching up to help Will shrug out of his jacket, sodden with the rain that fell in sheets from the sky, battering noisily against the windows of the stately home.

“Thanks for inviting me. It will be nice to have something other than Goldfish crackers and Red Bull for dinner,” Will said, mostly to watch Hannibal’s lip curl in distaste.

“Will, that’s ghastly,” he murmured as he hung up the coat, smoothing a hand over the slick fabric. “If you’ll head into the dining room, please.”

Will did so, striding through the hallway and turning to the dining room, coming to an abrupt halt in the threshold at the sight before him.

Gideon glanced up from his place at the table, the dining chair replaced with a wheelchair; an IV bag was held above his head, narrow tubes snaking around him and disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt. He blinked at Will, gaze sliding along the narrow form of his silhouette before he cocked a brow. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to fetch the police for me, will you?” he drawled, the tone wry and twisted as if he already knew the answer.

He considered him, his gaze falling to the meal already spread on the table. A banquet, the table settings already arranged. Four of them, linen napkins set artfully on the salad plate, the gilded, gold edge of the main course plate beneath it. Four crystal wine glasses sat empty beside each setting; the silverware and rims of the glass glimmering beneath the lights of the chandelier. There was a floral arrangement in the center, bright with the colors of spring- violet and butter yellow, orange and pink- and two long, tapered candles on either side of it, the golden flame flickering from each wick. The food was already laid out, a large platter set with something wound within a banana leaf, smaller platters of sauteed vegetables, roasted potatoes, and a spring salad.

It smelled delicious of course, and saliva pooled on his tongue at the prospect of the meal.

Will glanced once more at the fourth setting before returning his gaze to Gideon. “Afraid not,” he said, stepping into the room and walking around the table, settling down in the seat he came to consider his own. The one beneath the twisted bones and Leda and the Swan.

Gideon watched him, eyes narrowed curiously. “You’re not the one from before,” he said.

The words made Will frown, brows furrowing as he glanced at the seat opposite him. “No, I’m not,” he agreed, annoyed by the twinge of jealousy that stirred within him. An unattractive beast he was becoming more and more familiar with.

Gideon hummed, tapping a finger against the table, shifting the handle of his knife with the movement. “Who would have thought Baltimore had quite the collection of cannibals?” he muttered, eyes slanting as he gazed around the room; each fluttering tendril of the living herb wall.

“Technically, it’s only cannibalism if we’re equals.”

Gideon chuckled, flourishing a hand in a gesture to the banana leaf-wrapped centerpiece, steam curling upward from the meat. “So, that would, ironically, make me the only cannibal this evening, then?”

Will pursed his lips, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back. “I’m not sure yet.” His eyes burrowed into the seat ready for their fourth guest, mind reeling with the possibilities. Hannibal had promised him a surprise, and it seemed he would be gifted it tonight.

The man in question chose that moment to enter, cradling a bottle of wine in his hand. “We are still waiting on our final guest, but might I interest anyone in some wine to begin with?” he asked, masterfully twirling a corkscrew into the sealed bottle, brow raised as he glanced to Will and Gideon in turn.

“I’m curious, Doctor Lecter, on what pairs well with this particular meat?” Gideon asked.

The cork was pulled through the neck with a _pop_ , set aside as Hannibal began filling each glass, twirling the bottle with a flourish as he finished the pour. “Excellent question, Abel. Though the answer depends largely on the cut in question. Offal or sweetbreads pair best with Chardonnay, though depending on the preparation and accompaniments, a Pinot Noir can work quite nicely. For tonight, however, I have chosen an exquisite Syrah, with notes of blackberry, black pepper, and anise. A full-bodied, tannin-rich wine to pair with the delectable fat and gaminess of the muscle mass typically found in the thigh of a pig.” He set the wine bottle down on the serving cart behind him, a dull thunk sounding in the room. He turned to Gideon, lips parting to reveal sharpened teeth. “I hope it is to your taste.”

Gideon scoffed, glancing away. “Cutting off my leg was one thing, but the puns are inexcusable, Doctor.”

Hannibal’s smile only widened.

“Who are we waiting for, Hannibal?” Will asked, sharpened eyes turning to him at the question.

“It’s a surprise,” he answered, and this time, Will rolled his eyes, making an indignant sound as his fingers curled around the stem of his wineglass. He didn’t bother to swirl it, taking a generous sip without aerating it as if in spite of Hannibal’s sensibilities. “In the meantime, I believe I have yet to properly introduce you two. My apologies, Doctor Gideon, this is my good friend Will Graham. Will, I believe you’re familiar with Doctor Gideon, correct?”

He glowered in response.

“So, what are you serving me with?” Gideon asked, grinning coyly at the shifting tension between the two men.

“A salad to start, arugula with walnuts, sauteed pears, and goat cheese. Roasted purple potato hash with fiddleheads and ramps for the side. And of course, the main course. _Roti de cuisse,_ clay-roasted thigh with canoe cut marrow,” he explained, gesturing with unabashed glee at the large platter.

“And how does one politely turn down such a meal?”

Hannibal blinked. “One doesn’t.”

The doorbell rang, cutting through the stillness of the room. Will straightened his spine, chin raising as he glanced at the doors to the dining room- as if he might see through all the walls between him and the final guest.

_His surprise._

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Hannibal said, stepping away from the table and into the hall. Will’s eyes followed the movement, watching him until the distance grew too great and he disappeared.

“So, how exactly did you two meet?” Gideon asked, drawing his attention from the double doors.

“He was my therapist,” he said, adding, “he helped me kill my doctor.”

“And did you make a meal of him as well?” At Will’s nod, he sighed theatrically. “Hmm. Here I thought I was special.”

“You’re not,” Will answered simply, turning away from him once more to fix his eyes on the door. He was perched on the edge of his seat, chin craning as shadows shifted forward. Hannibal came into view first, eyes gleaming mischievously as he stepped into the room, a familiar form coming to stand beside him, beady eyes finding Will’s instantly, lips twisting into an uneven grin.

“Doctor Gideon, you may recall Matthew Brown,” Hannibal introduced, and Gideon rose a finger at Matthew in recollection. _The one from before._ He said something, but it went unnoticed by Will, his gazed fixed, holding Matthew’s own.

“Long time no see, Will,” Matthew said, his grin wide and Cheshire and he paused, giving a lewd wink before allowing Hannibal to guide him around the table where he sat opposite Will. 

“I love cooking with clay,” Hannibal said, unconcerned by the tension that crackled in the air with Matthew's entrance. A tangible and oppressive thing that he was surely aware of- had in fact been anticipating. He clasped the handle of a small, wooden mallet from a dish set beside the serving tray, peeling back the banana leaves to reveal the red clay beneath. He tapped at it firmly, fissures erupting from the strike and shattering into shards. “Creates a more succulent dish, and adds a little theatricality to dinner.”

A foot bumped against Will’s own, forcing his gaze to fall from the slab of pink, tender meat. The glare he gave Matthew was withering, a silent protest against the action that went ignored, his shin prodded at once more.

“Prometheus fashioned man out of clay and gave him fire,” he heard Gideon say, his voice wistful. Hannibal said something in response but it went unheard, filtered out from his stream of consciousness when the persistent foot slid in between his calves, trailing an upward seam along his legs.

Will rose his leg, slamming his foot down on Matthew’s own and grinding it hard into the floor. It was a firm motion, pulling a grunt from Matthew and clattering the silverware set out on the table.

Hannibal paused mid-sentence, a carving knife poised in the meat as he glanced between the two. “Is everything alright?” he asked, feigning innocence though Will suspected the bastard knew _damn well_ what he was doing.

He refocused on Matthew, his expression pinched into one of muted pain, grumbling something incoherently under his breath.

He should have known, really. There were few who would accept this sort of savagery, delight in it jovially the way Matthew would. Thriving in the violence, sinking into it as if he were returning home. There was the curious matter of _how_ such a partnership came to pass, though he suspected Hannibal would be more than thrilled to tell him all the sordid details now that his grand reveal had come to pass.

It was a partnership that would not last, he knew.

Hannibal wasn’t inviting Matthew to dinner for the comradery; it was a presentation.

He was asking Will for permission.

Will turned back to him, lips pulling into a forced grin. “Everything’s fine,” he answered, knowing it sounded insincere even as the words left his tongue.

Hannibal smiled, turning back to the task of slicing the meat. “Excellent.”

Gideon fell silent, lips parted, and gaze half-lidded as he glanced between the three of them. Dissecting them, turning them over, and scrutinizing them.

Nothing more was said as Hannibal began serving the food, delicate portions of perfectly cooked meat glistening on bone-colored plates. Matthew gawked openly at it, any remaining vestiges of irritation at Will’s rejection forgotten as he considered the meat before him- comparing it to the same cut of meat on the three plates surrounding him and the roasted thigh left to cool on the table. His awe was palpable, the idea of such cuisine perhaps easier to stomach than the reality of it.

Will pointedly raised his fork and knife, cutting into and setting the meat on his tongue, chewing thoughtfully. Hannibal had yet to even sit down as he did so, and it was rude to eat before all parties were seated but Hannibal’s eyes glinted playfully as he caught sight of the gesture, his chuckle a deep vibration not unlike a purr.

“How is it, Will?” he asked.

Will finished chewing, swallowing the masticated meat. His eyes met Matthew’s, the hazel gaze widened in apprehension, and his nostrils flared. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he answered, lowering his gaze as he cut himself another portion.

The chair scraped along the floor as Hannibal finally sat down, raising his own fork and knife. It cut across the plate, Hannibal and Will the only ones eating before Matthew and Gideon hesitantly joined them- a sluggishness to their movements, narrowed eyes considering the meat on the tines of their fork.

Gideon hummed. “My compliments to the chef,” he muttered, and Will supposed he had to admire his wit in the face of such absurdity. Most would falter beneath it, accept it with significantly less grace.

He glanced up at Matthew from beneath his lashes, wondering if he would accept his death when the time came. If his manic lilt would extend even to the brutality of a knife against his own flesh or if he would succumb to the natural desire to fight. To clutch hold of life with all the rabid ferocity of a cornered animal.

They had been friends, once.

Or as close to friends as he had known at the time. Desperate and lonely and finding comfort in the sameness they shared. Strange then, that the sameness that once bonded them seemed so paltry. Incomparable to the differences that separated them now.

If this disease of theirs sat on a spectrum than they stood at opposite ends of it.

Whatever remained of their friendship- and he hesitated to call it such- had corroded in time. Fashioned into a corpse and his teeth tore into the meat viciously, belated anger searing along his belly. As if the time and distance allowed a fog to clear in his mind and the acrid reminder of his touches felt like bruises on his flesh.

He glanced at the blade of the knife held in his hands; considered how cathartic it would feel to sink it into his flesh.

“So, Will Graham,” Gideon asked, the sound of his name pulling him from his thoughts. “Now that you’ve had time to think about it, can you tell me if I’m the only cannibal dining here tonight?”

Hannibal glanced up with thinly veiled intrigue, turning to Will and cocking a brow, bemused by the question. _Tickled pink_ , was the phrase that came to mind at the sight of such unrestrained joy brimming on the man’s face and he had half a mind to get revenge for such clumsy machinations. Perhaps he would clean out his pantries before he left, collecting a debt for the inconvenience in the form of several expensive bottles of alcohol.

He forced himself to turn away, facing Gideon as he gave a slow grin. “No, Doctor Gideon. You’re not.”

His answering laugh was bright, oddly merry despite the residual ache of his amputated limb and the taste of his own flesh nestling in the crowns of his teeth.

~x~

“So, I tried filling in the blanks myself but I’m curious. What exactly happened here?” Matthew asked, using his spoon to punctuate the words and flicking it between Will and Hannibal. They had since moved on to dessert, an Earl Grey crème Brulee with a peach and brown sugar compote sat in ramekins, the crisp sugar shell torched and caramelized.

Will gave a slow blink, teeth digging into the soft tissue of his cheek. “You tell me. You seemed to have figured something out on your own,” he countered, raising his chin.

The curved edge of his spoon scraped across the ceramic dish. “It wasn’t hard. After he framed me, I knew you were right about him. And then, conveniently, only a month later the Chesapeake Ripper kills Doctor Bad Touch?”

Will’s spoon clattered as it fell from his limp grasp, clanging noisily against his dish as his widened gaze fell to Matthew.

He sneered, shrugging his shoulders. “That was easy to figure out too, once I heard about the whole scandal of his.” He paused, lips twitching into a cruel grin as he leaned across the table on his elbows, lowering his voice to a whisper as he asked, “starred in any home movies, lately?”

Will hadn’t realized he stood from his chair until a hand reached out, curling around his arm.

“Mister Brown, please- elbows off the table,” Hannibal chided, eyes narrowed dangerously and voice low. Words siphoned through a growl.

Matthew scowled, rolling his eyes in exasperation but relented, settling against the arching back of his chair and pulling his elbows from the table. Will sat back down, the grip on his spoon tighter than necessary, knuckles turning white. “I tricked him. Followed him to get evidence, then threatened him with a gun and extorted him into helping me,” Will answered, glancing to Gideon at the sound of a chuckle.

“You got moxie, kid, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, shoving a spoonful of the custard into his mouth.

“He certainly does,” Hannibal agreed, brimming with pride. As if Will’s triumph was his own and any indignity that should have been found at having been so easily controlled by someone more than half his age was nowhere in sight.

The rest of the dessert passed with little excitement, stilted conversation passed over heated glares as if Will might flay Matthew with his gaze alone. Tear his flesh from his muscles and bones through the sheer vitriol of his gaze. It wasn’t long before Hannibal was rising, pushing his chair in, and striding around the table. “If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’ll help Abel get situated for the evening,” he said, and- for not the first time since arriving- Will rolled his eyes at him.

Hannibal lacked subtlety, his finesse slipping in the overt machinations.

Oh, he was definitely stealing _something_ before the night was through.

A penance, he considered it.

“Don’t worry, though, Doctor Gideon, this won’t be your last meal. Nor will it be the last time you’ll be seeing either Will or Matthew,” he explained, a foot kicking forward to unlock the wheels of the chair.

Gideon scowled, folding his hands in his lap as he was steered away from the table. “You know, maybe it’s the imminent death, but that prospect doesn’t bother me as much as it should. How lucky am I to be given dinner and a show in my final days?”

“Your death was imminent long before Matthew and I discharged you from the hospital, Abel. I saw your charts,” Hannibal said, his tone measured. The sort of clear and decisive tone a doctor would use when doling out tragic news to a patient. Firm and methodical. “The tragedy is not to die, Abel, but to be wasted.”

Gideon said something that went unheard, the words waning as Hannibal guided him from the dining room, leaving Matthew and Will alone in their absence.

_Dramatic bastard._

“So, you explained how it started. But why did you come back?”

Will turned back to Matthew at the question, blinking twice as he rose an inquisitive brow. “Excuse me?”

The legs of the chair scraped noisily as he rose, a hand sliding along the surface of the table as he stalked around it, head tilted as he considered Will. In a new light, perhaps. So different from the Will he remembered that it was as if they were strangers. The young boy so uncomfortable with the world- unable to withstand as banal as eye contact and who postured himself to be as small as possible, rolling with the too many punches dealt to him. A hard image to reconcile now with the man who ate two servings of human flesh while Matthew struggled to finish his first.

He came to a stop beside Will, leaning against the table and bracing himself on it, fingers curling around the edge as he glanced down at him. He grinned when Will glanced back, unwavering. “I know you left. Once you got what you wanted, you cut him off, right? So why did you come back?”

He wondered how exactly Matthew knew as much as he did, though refused to ask as much. A hand of cards he would rather keep close to his chest. “Why is it any of your business?”

“Just curious,” he answered, lips curling as he added, “my guess is you have a type.”

“That so?”

“Mhm. Doctors," he said, cocking a brow at the insinuation.

His jaw twitched, and Will pulled his hands into his lap to keep himself from reaching for the knife. “Shut the fuck up-”

“He’s using you, Will,” Matthew interrupted, nonplussed by the threat he had abruptly cut off from Will’s tongue. His smile dropped, replaced by a frown and his eyes softened in an expression of concern. Or a facsimile of such, too artificial to be sincere. “Maybe you can’t see it because you’re used to it. Maybe you even like it. But I see it.”

Will sneered. “That’s rich coming from you.”

  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, ire worming its way into the words. He stared at Will for several stretching seconds before sighing, relenting that Will would say nothing more on the matter. The faux concern returned once more. “Look, I didn’t want to tell you this because I didn’t want to upset you but he’s obsessed with you. Always has been and I don’t know if you came back to him because you thought it was a good idea or because he gave you no choice but it was a mistake,” he said, pausing only a moment before adding, “you know he tried to get me to sleep with him? After we got Gideon. He wanted me to pretend to be you.”

Will nearly choked on his attempt to stifle the laugh, the obvious lie clumsy- built on the assumption that Will didn’t mirror Hannibal’s obsession enough to understand him so thoroughly. To discern the truth from fabrications. Built on the assumption that he was still the easily manipulated boy Matthew had once known, a game devised around a playmate that Matthew had dangerously underestimated.

He was curious though to what end. What game exactly was Matthew hoping to play? Will the prize he hoped to win, and he swallowed the laughter, letting his lips tremble as if disquieted by the thought. Lowering his gaze like the wounded animal Matthew wanted him to be. “Why would he do that?” he asked, voice quiet in the stillness between them.

“I don’t know. Like I said, he’s obsessed with you. And you’re letting him do it because you don’t know any better.” Will was thankful he had thought to drop his head, knowing he would be unable to obscure the hatred that settled into his eyes at the sentiment. Wanting nothing more than to show Matthew exactly how much better he knew by carving into him with the knife sitting before him. So tempting, the blade shimmering in the flickering light of the slowly melting candle.

Instead, he steadied his breath, pinched his eyes tight until he managed to squeeze a few tears, letting them trail down the slope of his cheek.

He was always good at crying on cue, the same trick he had used once on Hannibal and there was some poetic beauty in it, a symmetry that the same trap would be the snare to catch on Matthew. If people were going to continue to coddle him, to treat him like the fragile child they mistakenly believed he was then at the very least he would weaponize it.

His voice warbled over the manufactured tears as he said, “even if you’re right, what can I do? He’s the Ripper, Matthew. You don’t know what he’s capable of.” The words were tinged in fear, as if Will knew from experience the sort of torment the Ripper could do. He did, of course- though not in the way Matthew might think.

“I can help you,” Matthew said, and a hand reached out, knuckles brushing across Will’s cheek- tracing the cut of his jaw, and Will forced himself to grow languid beneath the touch. To not turn and bite the hand until a finger was clenched between his teeth and blood slicked his lips. “We can kill him ourselves.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” he asked, incredulous. Dubious.

“He might be using you, but you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, don’t you?” The hand curled around Will’s ear, brushing his curls back before plucking a strand and pulling it taut. And Will supposed he wasn’t entirely wrong in that assessment. It was a crude way to consider it, yet it did in fact seem as if Hannibal sat in the palm of his hand. That Will and Will alone possessed a power over him.

An exhilarated thrill trembled down his spine at the thought. It went unnoticed, Matthew continuing as he said, “surely you can think of something. You tricked him once. Think you can do it again?”

“It won’t be as easy this time,” he reasoned, finally raising his gaze to look at Matthew, knowing his blue eyes would be glassy, tears clumping along his lashes. He inhaled, exhaled a shaky breath as he licked his lips, the motion traced by a beady gaze. “But...yes. I think I can.”

“Good,” Matthew said, lip curling into a grin. An undeserved arrogance in the gesture, pleased with himself. “Who knows, maybe the next time we meet for dinner we’ll be the ones doing the carving. Got any recipes in mind?”

Matthew was, if nothing else, _bold_ ; Will could credit him that much. _Moxie,_ he thought wryly, though it was unfortunate that such brazen confidence came unsupported. That he allowed his ignorance to make him so blind- so obsessed himself with Will but with a version of him that didn’t exist anymore. A version of him that might have fallen for such a plan once- might have allowed Matthew to contort him to the vision of him that existed in his brain.

“Barbecue ribs still your favorite?” he asked, lips twitching into a grimacing smile- one that felt unfamiliar now on his own face but would be recognizable to the man before him.

Matthew huffed out a laugh, eyes sparkling. He lowered himself, tilting forward at the waist. He kissed the way he always did; the greediness and urgency unchanged, using his lips to crowd Will and push him back.

Or rather, Will let him do so, playing a game of his own and he could stomach the taste of the tongue in his mouth for the time being- knowing soon he would be able to bite down on it and taste blood.

~x~

“Matthew had some interesting things to say while you were taking your sweet time with Gideon,” he said, voice cold and pointed. Matthew had left, departing in a cab that Hannibal had called for him and paid for to return to his group home. They stood in the kitchen, once more side by side as they fell into their roles- Hannibal washing dishes and passing them along to Will to dry.

“Did he now? Anything of note?” he asked, and Will scoffed at him.

“Like you didn’t know. That’s why you left us alone in the first place. You were curious what would happen, and maybe half expecting to return to another body on the table,” he accused, watching as Hannibal’s lips twitched but remained otherwise straightened, his gaze unwavering from the plate he washed as if the suds on the bone-white chine was the most fascinating thing in the world. Maybe he was disappointed there wasn’t a body waiting for him. “He said you tried to fuck him so you could pretend he was me.”

The words had the effect he wanted, and his smile was smug as Hannibal stilled at the crude language, blinking twice before finally glancing at Will. “An intriguing, if a dishonest, version of the events.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, curiosity prickling. He had thought it a lie in its entirety- crafted within Matthew's head instead of having any basis in reality.

“Such an offer was made, though not by me,” Hannibal answered, resuming his careful washing of the dish. Will half-wanted to snap that it was as clean as could be but kept the thought to himself, his mind pulling him into a different direction. A decidedly _jealous_ one and he was beginning to dislike how fervently such envy clung to him.

“You didn’t accept, did you?” he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it spoken aloud.

Hannibal seemed offended, lips pursing as he finally handed over the thoroughly washed plate. “Of course not.”

“Good,” he said, turning away before he could see the grin that would form on Hannibal’s face, revealing a jaw with too many teeth. After a moment, he added, “you said you were going to kill a patient for the sounder.”

“He is a patient.”

Will furrowed his brow, setting the dishcloth and the plate down. He reached between them, shutting the faucet off in a silent demand for Hannibal’s whole attention. He offered it, depositing the glass in his hands to rest beside the sink, frothing bubbles slipping down the well. “Since when?”

“Recently. Only a week,” he answered, the excitement in the words demonstrating just how eager he was to reveal such development to Will even if he wouldn’t say as much. “How serendipitous it was to have him approach me and I decided it best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Will gave a slow blink, shaking his head as he laughed. “He’s an idiot,” he mumbled. He paused then, hesitated over the words before finally confessing to them, careful eyes trained on Hannibal’s face as he said, “he kissed me.”

It was a petty, spiteful thing to do. Curious to see the jealousy that was becoming so commonplace within him mirrored in Hannibal’s face. He was not disappointed, amber eyes darkening, threaded with maroon. Thin lips pulled into a tight line and the knot in his throat bobbed once with a heavy swallow. “He is an idiot," he agreed, and a chill washed over him at the utterance of the words, cold seeping into him and freezing his veins. It felt _possessive_ in a way that should have bothered Will but he found himself preening beneath it instead, delighting in the cruelty offered on his behalf.

“He thinks I’m going to kill you with him,” Will said, mouth twitching into a grin.

The taut pull of Hannibal’s muscles eased at the words, made languid by the coy twist in them. Will was suddenly aware of just how close they were, his chest only inches from the edge of Hannibal's shoulder- close enough that he could see the fine lines carved around Hannibal’s eyes, the lines the deepened with the press of a smile. “Should I be worried, Will?”

He inhaled sharply, head filling with the smells around him. Cologne mingling with the overly fragrant scent of the dish soap. “You should be _hungry_. How do you feel about barbecue ribs?”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthew, Matthew. 
> 
> Next Up: Let’s just say the next chapter is titled “Touch” and that the sexual tension tag is going to get worse before it gets better. (But I’m also like…super excited for it and it’s already almost completely written lol)


	15. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this chapter contains staggering amounts of UST (with a chapter title like Touch though, that feels obvious)

**Chapter Fourteen: Touch**

The soft and solemn notes filtered through the speaker of the record player, a near torturous crawl as the music coddled him. Swathed Will in its sounds and the haunting melody as Hannibal strode through the study, fingers of both hands curled around the stems of two stout wineglasses. “An after-dinner port,” he explained, leaning forward to hand him the drink- a dark red, like plump sweet cherries.

Will accepted it with a thanks, lowering it beneath his nose and inhaling the bouquet with a few, gentle swirls. Sweet, like cinnamon and raspberries.

“Symphonie Fantastique, composed by Hector Berlioz,” he added, flourishing a hand in the direction of the record player as he sat on the couch beside Will, crossing his legs neatly. Nostrils flared as he brought his own glass beneath his nose, the dark liquid swirling within the bulbous well. He took a sip. “Written after he attended a production of _Hamlet_ and became smitten with the actress who played Ophelia. Overwhelmed by his feelings of love and the repeated spurning of his advances, he turned to music and composed an orchestra about an artist haunted by the vision of a perfect, unattainable woman.”

Will rose a brow. “Astonishing how often the role of muse overlaps with a victim of harassment,” he mumbled, following the words with a sip of the wine. The flavor was sweet, coating his tongue in richness.

The edges of Hannibal’s mouth tipped into a smile. “It is an unfair advantage to the artist that history would rather remember the collector of beauty than the inspiration,” he agreed, tipping his head in Will’s direction at the opposite end of the couch. After another sip of his wine, he asked, “do you know know what an imago is?”

Will blinked at the abrupt change in topic, the answer slow to come to him. “It’s a flying insect.”

“It’s the last stage of a transformation,” Hannibal corrected.

“When you become who you will be?” he asked after several seconds slipped between them. He leaned forward, setting the wine glass on the coffee table before them, a stone coaster beneath it. A topic Hannibal seemed obsessed with; the concept of metamorphosis. Of becoming; change and growth.

Did he reach his imago? Or was even Hannibal still changing, shifting into something other than what he already was?

“It's also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

The term pulled, snagged on something in his memory. A footnote from his studies in a psychology class he took in his first year of college- more out of curiosity than an actual requirement for his coursework. “Not just an image of a loved one. An ideal,” he surmised, knowing that such an image was often distorted. Amplified and bent within the mind until it was recognizable of the subject of its creation only in the shape of its shadows.

“The concept of an ideal,” Hannibal added. “I suppose a muse is a sort of imago. A concept of an ideal that we carve into as a source of inspiration, destroying the thing we claim to love in favor of making it performative to an audience.”

Will’s lips twitched. “Preparing it for consumption.” Hannibal mirrored the gesture, turning to Will so that the fire behind them could cast a warm glow on one half of his face- throwing the other into inky shadows. The light twitched across the gold of his skin, the high arch of his cheekbones more severe under the glow of the flame.

He had rolled his eyes when Hannibal first set to making a fire, shortly after retiring to the study once the kitchen was cleaned. It was nearing summer now, and the oppressive heat of a fire on his back seemed unnecessary, a desire of aesthetics more than one of pragmatism, and a quip sat on the tip of his tongue to deride the man for his theatricality. But it was the tentative first steps into summer, where the seasons shifted and blurred into a nebulous concept- undefined and alchemical. The days warm and balmy with the caress of a soft breeze but the nights were once more plunged into spring. The dying grasp of a hand curling around the world, chilling it with the rise of the moon, and the heat was not oppressive as he thought it would have been.

It was simply comfortable.

“How does it end?” Will asked, reaching forward to grab his port. He took another sip, the warm spice of the cinnamon tingling in his throat.

“If you are critical of how it began, I doubt you will be more receptive to the end.”

Will crooked a brow, tilting his head. “Our artist sought retribution for his spurned affections in his orchestra then?”

“The fourth movement descends into a nightmare. An opiate-fueled dream in which the artist kills his beloved and is condemned for it. He is executed on the scaffold and his beloved transforms into a whore and is cast into Hell,” he said, adding, “interestingly, the muse in question- Harriet Smithson- heard about his symphony and, believing it might have been for her, attended its production. She was so moved and swayed by the performative display of his emotions and adoration for her that they began a courtship. They married soon after, and divorced several years later.”

Will scoffed, the sound part contemptuous and part humor. “The muse didn’t live up to the imago?”

“It is rare that they do.”

“He got what he wanted. Consumed her and spat her back out for an audience to applaud at. To continue to applaud at,” he said, bitterness lacing his words as he tilted his head in the direction of the record player. Of the love frozen in time before it became tainted with the drag of _disappointment._ Hannibal hummed in concession, head tilting back as he said nothing more.

They fell into a companionable silence, letting the sounds of the orchestra fill the space between them. The shrill song of the violin and the deep baritones of the brass instruments like a shroud, trapping them within the moment. His eyes slipped closed, slumping in his seat and letting his head drop. There was a dance to the music, choreography to the notes that unfurled and twirled across his mind. A story that thrummed within the resonating swells and crescendos and shimmered beneath the fall and descent of the action.

He would have to leave soon, even as every part of him wished to stay. To settle into the cushions of the sofa with the warmth of the fire on his back and the taste of cinnamon on his tongue for the rest of the night. Yet, the drive was long, looming before him in the way such tasks tended to when one delayed them. And Hannibal had mentioned an early morning flight to Minnesota he had booked, neglecting to explain and Will hadn’t asked. The curling pull of his smile as he said the words told him everything he needed to know and he had only laughed at whatever chaos Hannibal was undoubtedly planning.

He knew he should leave- more than anything so that Hannibal could get as much rest as he could before the abrupt blare of his alarm clock would summon him. He was imposing on him by loitering, veering dangerously close to turning into a burden.

Though, perhaps Hannibal didn’t want him to leave either, delaying the moment for as long as he could with a suggestion to move into the study- the offering of another class of wine, dark as a ripened plum.

His head lolled to the side, gaze soft as he considered Hannibal- his profile, half-shrouded in shadows and half-illuminated by the golden flames of the fire. The panic that had first struck him when he learned of Hannibal’s affection for him had almost entirely dissipated, placated by the assurances Hannibal offered- the promise that he would expect or demand nothing more. It was easier to examine where his own feelings sat, even if they felt nebulous and incoherent. A stream of thought that meandered and separated, pulling him into too many different directions but there were some paths that were certain. Things he could list and discern without a doubt.

_He liked being around Hannibal._

No, he didn’t merely like it. He was _completed_ by it. Satisfied and whole in a way he never was before, the vision of himself more concise; colors amplified and contrast sharp. There should have been some resentment at the fact that he and he alone wasn’t enough to feel so wholly himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to harness the bitterness of it. Too satiated by knowing the entirety of Will Graham to be angry with how it came about.

It seemed perverse to confess to- even in the privacy of his own thoughts- but there was something so beautiful about the simple act of being. Of reveling in who and what he was without fear that it would tarnish those around him; that Hannibal would reject him for his savage delights. But of course, he wouldn’t, as they shared this brutality and cruelty. A bond that was stronger and more intimate than a bond forged through other means; through kisses or proclamations of love or even sex.

Perhaps that was what Hannibal meant when he claimed to need nothing more from Will than simply Will himself. The bond that already existed between them more powerful than any that could be created in the future.

Though the question remained; what did Will _want_ in his future?

When he tried to envision it- summon a clumsily sutured idea of what his life might be in the years to come- there were many variables. He didn’t feel particularly attached to anything one way or another- he never really had a concept of home, and the prospect of moving far away or staying within the same ten-mile radius his whole life was a negligible one. There was the tentative thought of romance, though it was a phantom; a passing farce in his mind. He imagined any romances that would come to pass would end the way all his previous ones did; when his inability to move the relationship forward diminished any flame. Everyone wanted to be wanted, after all, and he could hardly fault for someone for leaving him when his distance and discomfort proved insurmountable. The thought of romance would pass, taking the hope of a family of his own with it.

Not as if he was certain on that either.

He supposed, if he really thought about it, he wouldn’t mind the idea of children. Kids were always easier to speak with than adults, their perception of the world certain even if it was so limited. Living their days simply and at the moment and there was a charm to the inherent greed of childhood, where every decision was made quickly and only in regards to how it might affect them.

But children were also _vulnerable,_ and the thought of having to protect them, to shield them from all the monsters in the world while pretending there was nothing under the bed was overwhelming. As if he wouldn’t be enough and even his own brand of protection did little to assure him. Revenge, after all, wasn’t the same as protection.

There was nothing he held to. No home, no prospects for romance, no family. Nothing he felt he needed one way or the other to feel fulfilled.

Except for Hannibal.

The ambivalence he regarded all other aspects of his life didn’t include the man sitting beside him; he _needed_ him. Even if there was nothing in the future for them but distant telephone calls and the occasional dinner made with the meat of their kill. Each thought of how his life might unfold factored in Hannibal- whether it was the dangerous, combustible consideration of _something more_ or the more humble thought of their friendship. He was orbiting him, drawn into a gravitational pull he had no desire to fight.

He thought of Hannibal’s proposed plan should they need to run. How pleasant he made a life lived as a fugitive sound simply because they would be living it together. That each evening that would pass in their home of the moment before they would uproot to another country would be spent like this one; quietly side by side, bellies full with a meal they prepared together completely- from the kill to the butchering to the cooking and the cleaning- listening to music and simply existing. No pretenses or costumes to hinder or restrain them.

Perhaps there might even be a dog or two thrown into the mix (or more, if he felt like testing the true limits of Hannibal’s proposed love for him against the love of keeping his possessions in relatively good condition.)

It was a vivid image, one that made his chest clench tightly and something warm pulse in his veins. He wanted it- _that specifically_ \- and how unfair it was that something that his heart undeniably yearned for was the very same thing his brain detested. That the very thought of touches passed between them made something primal spark in his brain, a learned response with too much sway over him.

Hannibal may be content with an arrangement devoid of intimacy, but Will wasn’t. Not when it was because it was taken away from him, hijacked by his own body. Stolen by someone who didn’t deserve it and he refused to bend to it. To sacrifice something that should be precious, that should be enjoyable.

He stole glances of Hannibal from his periphery- overt and unbothered by his own lack of subtlety. Shameless as he appraised the form beside him- _strong, large, and masculine_ \- and his throat tightened at the sight of it, heart palpitating in the beginning crawl of fear.

But there was nothing to fear. Not for him, at least. To others, Hannibal was certainly a demon, a devil among them who would delight in their anguished cries. But he wouldn’t hurt _Will_.

He thought once more of his long-ago psychology class. The study of anxiety and the rewiring of the brain that made his neurons snap and spark in anticipation of something that would not come. A preemptive panic-response. A phobia.

He thought of the treatment for such conditions and something like resolve pulled at him; the stubborn desire to take himself back from the hands of the dead and the words left his mouth before he could fully contemplate a plan of action.

“Can I touch you?”

Hannibal glanced up at the question, his expression unchanged even as his eyes slanted to Will, narrowing minutely as if trying to discern a riddle. “How do you mean?” he asked, words enunciated slowly, the syllables stretched and spoken with care.

Will chewed his lip, peeling at chapped skin and tasting the dull copper taste of blood. “I mean...” he trailed off, swallowing the words and the spit that sat behind his teeth. They felt cluttered, lodged in his chest and pinched on his ribs, and instead of answering he slid across the space between them on the couch, pulling one leg in so his knee pressed against the firm, tufted back- his other foot kept on the ground for stability. He rose a hand, a purposely stilted movement so Hannibal could stop him if he so wished- grasp his wrist and push it away.

He made no move, only watching the movement with curious eyes, following the arch of Will’s hands as it crossed the distance and came to an uncertain stop only an inch from his face. He hesitated there, the appendage lingering in the air as bourbon-colored eyes traced the silhouette of slender fingers- the soft hills and valleys of his palm.

The first touch was tentative- fingertips ghosting over the high jut of his cheek. His skin was soft, elasticity worn over time and the steady breakdown in collagen. Not unlike the skin of a peach and Will pressed his hand down more firmly, allowing his hand to contour against his cheek. It wasn’t the first time he touched him but it was the first time without the barrier of blood smearing between them and there was a profound intimacy in it. Flesh meeting flesh, unheeded by the evidence of a fresh kill and the warmth passed along the pores of Hannibal’s face and the lines in Will’s palm was not from the warmth of spilled blood but from each other.

Hannibal said nothing, his gaze half-lidded and eyes held downward. As if he might see Will’s hand even as it pressed against the angles of his own face. Will's thumb smoothed circles from where it sat, light pulls against the subtle indent beside his nose- brushing against the tapered edge of his mouth.

He thought of touching his lips- tracing the soft and pink skin with barely-there caresses, as if memorizing the feel of them beneath his hands might make the thought of them beneath his own less intimidating. Less dangerous.

But it seemed a step too far. Too intimate- too many promises he was uncertain he could keep collapsed into a single gesture. So instead he shifted his hand back across his cheeks, fingers curling over the shell of his ear before pressing against the neatly coiffed locks. Ashen blond, threaded with gray. They were soft beneath his hand, yet there was a texture that made him pause. The distinct feel of styling product- the expensive sort, nothing that would become too clumped or stiffened or greasy. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but his hand sloped down, trailing across the cut of Hannibal’s jaw before continuing down.

Hannibal rose his chin, bearing his neck- ropy tendons pressing beneath the skin, the gentle undulation of his pulse nestled in the crook. It was a gesture of submission to many animals, though Will understood if for something else.

Trust.

His fingers pressed against his throat- in the dips of flesh stretched across his trachea and the muscles beneath. He traced an imaginary trail, familiarizing himself with the columns of the neck spread before him- the heat of the tanned skin beneath his touch. He pressed against the dip of the clavicle, slipping beneath the collar of the buttoned-up shirt, pinched tightly by the knot of Hannibal’s tie- floral embroidery on periwinkle silk.

He hesitated; considered pulling his hand back into his lap and apologizing for his intrusiveness. Letting the remaining vestiges of the evening pass unexplored and stilted until he could delay leaving no longer.

Instead, he slid his hand to the lapel of his blazer, giving a gentle tug as he asked, “can you take this off?”

Hannibal’s eyes opened more fully now, glancing at Will inquisitively. Time passed, an indiscernible and nebulous concept to him- something that existed outside of the moment he found himself in; the moments he always seemed to find himself in when sat beside Hannibal. As though they were encased in glass. Just as he started to shift his weight back, an apology for overstepping his boundaries readied on his tongue, Hannibal moved. The wineglass he still held in his hand in a loose grasp was set on the coffee table beside Will's so he could lean forward, shirking out of the thick fabric of his suit jacket- teal, a color that would have looked foolish on anyone else but somehow seemed elegant on the older man. A confidence so palpable that the world and perception bent to it.

Will reached out, pulling the jacket from his hands and setting it on the seat beside him, the spot he had occupied before sidling closer on the couch. He draped it over the pillows to prevent it from wrinkling, a concern he wouldn’t spare his own clothes but knew Hannibal would appreciate. “The tie too, please,” he asked, his voice small, lost within the crackle of the fire as it withered and burned the wood sat in the metal teeth. It was a bold request, and he wouldn’t fault Hannibal for denying it.

He didn’t though, his eyes gleaming with undisguised intrigue- a mix of amusement and curiosity glinting in the fragments of his iris. Deft fingers pulled at the knot, loosening it so that he could pull it over his head, tugging it from where it had been tucked beneath his waistcoat and passing it to Will. It was set aside as well, a limp, discarded snake left to drape over the blazer.

When Will reached for him next, it was with both hands, trembling fingers pulling at the brass buttons of the waistcoat. Slipping them through the seam of the stiff fabric until it was spread open, cast aside though not pulled off.

He sat back, eyes flicking over the sight. He had seen Hannibal dressed down before- sweaters instead of blazers, button-downs with sleeves rolled to his elbow and without the adornments of his usual suit. He had even seen him in pajamas on a handful of occasions, long-sleeved shirts, and loose-fitting slacks. He was less intimidating in such a manner, the bulk of so many layers pushed away to reveal someone a little smaller than the shadow he cast.

Still larger, large enough that something lodged in Will’s chest and pressed against the soft tissues of his heart. But small enough that he seemed more approachable.

He rose his hands to the top of the shirt, undoing the first button when Hannibal said, “Will.”

Will glanced up at him, fingers stilling on the fabric. He met his gaze, finding the widened pupils- eclipsing the amber and maroon colored iris that threaded around the black circles. The chest beneath his hands rose and fell in deep breaths and Will shifted, something twisting in his stomach at the sight of such growing arousal. Something that wasn’t quite dread but wasn’t the heady thrum of excitement it should have been if he was less broken, less hastily cobbled together.

Apprehension was the word for it, he supposed.

“I just want to-” he began, words falling short as he hesitated over them. How could he explain his intent? The thought experiment haphazardly constructed in his mind that if he might _touch_ Hannibal he could discern for himself where his feelings sat. A cruel experiment, a _tease_ , that had the potential to go horribly wrong. To catapult him into a place he did not wish to go or to associate with the man that, regardless of whether or not he wanted something more, was still a _friend_.

It was not unlike the theory of desensitization therapy, and he cringed inwardly at the thought of using him for such a task but uncertain of how else to go about it. Needing to see and know and _touch_ for himself- to decide if the form below him was one too similar to the monsters of his mind. Something for reference so that his mind didn’t unfairly twist him into the monster he wasn’t.

It was an insult, and he knew as much, so he said nothing else, fingers stilled over the buttons and waiting for Hannibal to make a decision. To push him away or allow him to continue. He would accept either.

Hannibal considered him, lust-blown eyes partially obscured behind the dark lashes. His lips pursed, flattened into a straight line and the muscles of his jaw twitched under the skin that Will had touched moments earlier, laying claim to it. He wondered if his touch burned the way Hannibal’s did on his own flesh, lingering long after he pulled away like a brand.

His thoughts were disrupted by movement, Hannibal’s hands raising up and gently pushing Will’s away. Not in rejection, but simply for the convenience of the matter as he began to unbutton his own shirt, fingers steady while Will’s trembled. He unbuttoned down to the band of his trousers, leaving the garment tucked in but allowing it to part open, revealing his torso beneath.

It was the most undone Will had seen him, and his thick swallow was a loud and humiliating break in the quiet, a sharp inhale followed by a blustering breath of air pushed out from between his lips- the taste of copper from where his teeth worried them still on his tongue.

The sight of Hannibal's bare chest was disquieting, decidedly large and _masculine_. Tufts of hair curled across his pectorals and tapered down his abdomen, a slimming trail that was bisected from view by his trousers. He was simply _broad_ , and even the roll across his middle from the bent seated position seemed intimidating- made him seem no less harsh and commanding.

Yet, he was disheveled in a manner that he imagined few had seen Hannibal in- his once crossed legs having slid, parted to allow Will more room as he reached between them. The more refined, more formal aspects of his suit discarded, shirt and waistcoat splayed open, parting to reveal the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. His hair was still frustratingly neat, though a stray lock fell across his brow and there was a flush to his golden skin.

He was pulled apart, dissected beneath Will’s exploratory touch and he allowed the knowledge to embolden him, to shift closer so his knee was wedged between the back of the couch and Hannibal’s hip. He raised his hand, setting his palm in the center of his chest. His press was firm, enough that he could feel the flutter, the delicate beating of his heart. He lingered, letting his hand rest in the dip between the toned muscles of his pectorals, enjoying the thrum beneath his palm.

He counted twenty beats before moving, fingers entwining through the fine hair and tugging them gently, experimentally. A shuddering breath shook beneath his touch, and he paused, chewing his lip as he set the knowledge aside before moving further along in his exploration.

What had been a hesitant touch became bolder, surprised by the softness beneath him. The softness of the hair, the soft belly hiding the firm muscles he could feel beneath supple skin. Even the soft breaths that shook from his ribs with rattling lungs. He touched every part of him; fingers skittering over the jutting curl of his ribs, the firm shoulders that he found when he let boldness turn brazen and slipped his hand beneath the open shirt.

Fingers traced across his flanks, coming to a slow stop when the muscles of Hannibal's abdomen clenched. “Are you ticklish?” Will asked, nose scrunching at the humorous thought.

Hannibal smiled, the motion reaching his eyes so that they crinkled, crow’s feet creasing the skin. “A little.” He was once more struck by how, despite the imposing nature of the man- despite the control he seemed to possess of the world and how it perceived him- he was, at the end of the day, human. His skin was burnished gold over toned muscles, body softened in his hearty nourishment- it was not the inky blackness or crimson of a demon, pulled taut over sinister angles. He smelled of his cologne- long since made familiar to his senses, the scent of bergamot and cedar and grapefruit a comfort- smelled of the herbs and garlic he handled so frequently, the lemony balm of basil and sharp tarragon. Like soap and detergent. He didn’t smell like charcoal, like fire and brimstone. Decidedly human despite what Will might think.

And he was _ticklish_.

The music continued to swell around them, the gentle and dainty notes becoming riotous- a cacophony of sound and he imagined that this was the point in the symphony where drug-induced madness created torment. Where anguish turned to violence and where Hell opened its maw to swallow someone whole.

The music was loud and yet his mind was blissfully silent, reveling in the feel of skin beneath his own. Pleased to find the rushing sound of the blood in his head and reverberation of his heart in his veins mellowed, becoming more and more muted as he familiarized himself with the contours of the man beside him. The touch less terrifying, less dreadful than it was when it began and the cluster of nerves that squirmed in anticipation had become quiet.

The anxiety in his chest had eased in increments, leaving only warmth and contentedness in its place- space for him to feel the soft beating of his own heart beneath his ribs.

Hannibal might have been much larger than himself- _masculine_ in a way that inspired fear- but he was soft, yielding to his touch in shaky exhalations and sighs that managed to slip past his lips.

There was still uncertainty, unsure of how he might respond to having the roles reversed- with Hannibal over him, with less clothing between them and with his own shirt pulled open for his heart to be on display. Unsure of how different it might be to have Hannibal _moving_ and dynamic instead of the pliant form he was now, giving Will the allowance of unfettered touches.

But at least the prospect of Hannibal himself was less fearsome, the form of him in his mind more resembling a man than a monster and he pulled his hand away from where it curled over his flank- fingertips brushing across the still untouched skin of his back- and began the task of buttoning him back up.

How strange it was that piecing him back together felt more intimate than undoing him, the foot still perched on the floor bumping against Hannibal’s own as he leveraged himself, careful to cant his torso to avoid unnecessary brushing. Not for his comfort, he was surprised to note- but for Hannibal’s, unable to play ignorant to the bulge of his slacks; the clothed erection that had been present since he first began to rub his hand along the curves and angles of his torso.

He wasn’t trying to torment him- more aware than most that a heart was not an idle plaything- and he certainly had no intention of moving further than his exploration. That was still too much, a terrifying prospect that made his steady and calm pulse quicken.

He was content in the progress he had made, the softening of the edges in his mind that were once too sharp. That once made him bleed.

He finished righting the button up, leaving the collar looser than Hannibal had worn it when the knot of his tie held it together. The brass buttons of his waistcoat came next and he sat back with a sigh once he was finished, his hands warm and tingling from the too many sensations. The sensation of fine hair, supple skin; firm muscles and expensive fabric.

The music was gone and the sound of the couch as he shifted his weight back was a deafening groan. He pulled the jacket from where he laid it out, passing it over to Hannibal as he settled himself in the corner, back cushioned by the throw pillows. Fabric shuffled as Hannibal slipped back into his jacket, though the tie was set aside, placed gingerly on the coffee table.

“Thank you,” he said, the soft-spoken words loud in the absence that followed, the record having come to an end and the fire reduced to smoldering embers.

Hannibal glanced at him, wrinkles pinched in the corner of his eyes as a small smile carved itself on his features. “You’re welcome.”

~x~

Eventually, Will left.

He didn’t want to, hesitating in the doorway as they said their goodbyes. But there was little point in prolonging the inevitable and the sound of his yawn was the harbinger that he had stayed too long. That the drive could be pushed off no longer and he was sullen as he sat in the car, driving down I95 and listening to music in the hopes that the undulations of the stereo would keep him alert.

He could still feel Hannibal beneath his palm and there was a thrill to it. Something delectable about the memory of the touch that nourished him.

The evening hadn’t been what he expected- Matthew’s sudden reemergence in his life charging at him from a blind spot he ignored- yet he was invigorated by it. By the exhilaration of a game to be played, by the thoughts that felt less muddled in his head. Not as defined as he might have liked but less frightening. Less shadowy.

He was lost in the foreign clarity of his mind, and he belatedly realized the chirp surrounding him was his ringtone and not a beat of the song coming from the speakers.

“ _Shit,”_ he hissed, reaching with one hand to grab the cellphone he had abandoned in the passenger seat when he arrived at Hannibal’s home. He didn’t bother to glance at the screen as he answered it. “Hello?”

“ _There you are,”_ came the soft, feminine words and he blinked twice before he connected them to the name that sat on the tip of his tongue.

“Um, yeah. Sorry, I went home last minute but I’m on my way back now,” he answered.

Callie sighed before mumbling, _“I wish you would have told me. You have a habit of disappearing and then being really difficult to get in touch with. I’ve been trying to call you all night. Gave up like two hours ago but decided to give it one more try before bed.”_

He winced, grimacing at his own evasiveness even if the blame was mutual. Her own attempts at conversations had been stilted. Curt things that lead nowhere and his phone had been quiet for so long he hadn’t thought to tell her he would be visiting home. “I said I was sorry,” he muttered, swallowing the bitterness in his voice before adding, “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Had a lot going on.”

She hummed, the sound a soft vibration in his ear. _“Well, not to pile on but I tried to find you in your dorm when you didn’t answer my calls. Chris told me to tell you you might as well stay out the rest of the night.”_

Will scowled, foot lowering against the brake with more force than necessary as the traffic slowed. The car jerked with the motion, and his one hand curled around the wheel. “Of course he did.”

“ _How far away are you?”_

He glanced at the clock. “I’ll be back by about two.”

“ _I’ll be asleep by then, but I’ll leave the apartment unlocked. You can spend the night with me,”_ she said, adding, _“I’ll try not to hog the bed too much, but just push me over if you need room. You know I’m a heavy sleeper.”_ It was punctuated with a laugh, and he pursed his lips. He hadn’t enjoyed the few nights they spent together, too tense to fall asleep or remain that way but he didn’t exactly have any other option. Sleeping in his car didn’t much appeal to him, especially with the cold night and the patter of raindrops against the hood of the vehicle.

“Sure, thanks. I’ll try to be quiet,” he said.

“ _Alright, see you soon,”_ she said, hesitating a moment before adding, _“I missed you, over the weekend. I just wanted you to know.”_

He swallowed, the sound sharp and laden with guilt. Guilt that only grew as he considered just how mired the situation was.

Another reason romance seemed a dim prospect in his future, unable to outrun the guilt that came with living too many lives. Obscuring and separating himself in the name of preservation; of living both the life he wanted to live and the one he needed to in order to maintain his facade.

She didn’t miss him. She missed what she thought he was, and there was an ache in his chest at all the lies he spun for her, knowing there would only be more before the inevitable end when he would be arrested.

“I missed you too,” he said, offering her another lie to add to the tally. The act was coming to a close. Jack Crawford had been distracted by Hannibal’s illusion in Minnesota and Gideon’s escape, but it would only be a matter of time before he would be set once more on his path. A week, Hannibal guessed. Maybe even less.

He was almost relieved, ready to shuck the burden from him so he could finally move on.

Whatever it was he was moving towards he didn’t know, but he welcomed it all the same.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya’ll ever been so horny for your serial killing, cannibal ex-therapist that you completely forget you have a girlfriend?
> 
> NEXT UP: *mutters incoherently about phone sex and murder* are you happy now, you horny savages? (just kidding, love you all. Be as horny and savage as your little hearts desire)


	16. Grounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SUPER long. I am sorry.
> 
> WARNING: NSFW content? In MY slow-burn? It’s more likely than you think. Also for all of you wondering just how our favorite Cannibal Himbo was feeling during the previous chapter well now you get to find out lol
> 
> Relevant tags- masturbation, phone sex
> 
> Enjoy;)

**Chapter Fifteen: Grounded**

The sound of Hannibal’s sighs and moans was swallowed by the rush of water as it reverberated against the sandstone tile of the shower, fog creating a haze on the glass door. Blurring the world surrounding him, his vision a pinhole of water droplets cascading down the walls and down his own flesh, steam curling around him.

One arm was stretched out before him, fingers splayed against the tile as he braced himself on the wall, his other hand curled into a fist around his cock. He tugged himself in languid, pleasurable drags, foreskin sliding along his shaft with each pull. His breath shook, squeezed from straining lungs and each exhale trembled and elongated, tapering into a moan.

He thought of Will’s hands sliding across his chest, the clammy heat of his palm as he pressed and melded it against the contours of his torso. Committing the feel of him to memory, familiarizing himself with the soft and fine hairs and the firm press of toned muscle beneath skin.

He imagined those same slender hands exploring him further- burning a trail along the smooth inside of his thigh. Fingers cradling the weight of his sack before working up and exploring the shape and lines of his cock with the same fervor he did his torso. Feather-light and phantom touches that would grow firmer, more confident as he explored. Fingertips tracing the seam of the frenulum and then the sensitive slit on the crown before curling around him and pumping his shaft.

He understood the intent behind the touches; reveled beneath the feel of the curious hands which grew less hesitant, bolder with each pass across Hannibal’s skin. He had smelled the saccharine rich scent of anxiety that peeled off of him in waves; heard the slight hitch of uncertainty in each breath, and had nearly told him _no._ Worried that the lines would become too obscured- too blurred. That he might tarnish himself in Will’s mind.

But as with most instances, Will surprised him; and he was pleased when the press of Will’s hand became more ardent. When the quivering lip fell straight and the unsteady breath that slipped between his lips smoothed. When he became less frightened by the form stretched before him and the tension pulled from him, settling into ease and comfort at the moment. It warmed him, veins heated and pulsing in his skin that Will even wanted to try- that he wanted to touch Hannibal without fear curdling in his mind and soiling the thought of him.

He wondered if Will might let him do the same. If Will would trust him enough to shirk the garments he wore like armor aside so that Hannibal could help familiarize him with his own touch. His hands ghosting across the angles and curves of him, a gentle touch that would slowly unwind him- allow the taut strain of his muscles to ease when Hannibal showed him the delicacy and love he deserved. He would be timid at first- perhaps even frightened and maybe it was a matter best done in layers. Slipping into the moment in increments over the course of several nights until he didn’t tense at the touch. Until he understood Hannibal wanted nothing more than to cherish him.

He imagined tasting him; that when the time came and Will fell lax and pliant beneath his hands that he might retrace the same path but with his lips instead. Tasting the columns of his neck, the dip of his clavicle. The indentations of his stomach from the toned muscle beneath. He would know the taste of his flesh on his tongue in the most sinful, decadent way and Will would keen beneath it; writhe at the feel of kisses exalted on the entirety of his persons and the cool brush of fluttering exhalations in the wet patch left behind.

He would be beautiful in the throes of passion, head tilting back and tendons straining beneath his throat. A pinched furrow in his brow, curls clinging to a sweat-slicked forehead. Blue eyes wide and hazy with arousal instead of sharpened in fear or clouded in apprehension. His lips- always chapped and tasting of copper from how often he worked it nervously between his teeth- would be parted, sighs and moans tumbling from them.

A masterpiece tangled in his sheets; an exquisite display of creamy skin spread bare and a spine arching up like a bow as he reached the crest of his pleasure. A flush spread across his chest and cheeks, eyes pinched shut.

An image he didn’t yet know- or might ever know- and already he was intoxicated on it, drunk on the pleasure he could bestow upon someone so magnificent and deserving. Incoherent moans and whimpers like prayers made in supplication.

Shoulder blades rippled beneath the flesh of his back as the hand wound around his cock moved faster, grip tightened almost painfully. The lather of soap eased the glide of his palm and the water that rained from the shower above was a pelting massage, an undulation of sensation.

The muscles of his stomach contracted, tension spooling within him and his toes curled against the puddle of water that had yet to slip down the drain. His knees buckled with the strain of supporting himself as his pleasure reached a fever pitch.

It wasn’t long before he tumbled down, the fingers splayed on the wall curling into his palm so his knuckles bruised on sandstone. His orgasm ripped through him, almost violent in the force of the spasms that quivered beneath his flesh.

He came, spent spilling into his hand, and Will’s name spilling from his lips.

~x~

“Jack’s furious,” Alana said, her voice solemn as she stood beside Hannibal in the hunting cabin. Velvet antlers reached outward, curling around them like fingers hoping to ensnare them in a trap. Her gaze lingered on the display before them, gray eyes narrowed in consternation as she considered the slumped form of Cassie Boyle, hung and impaled on an ivory crown. Her head lolled forward, chin pressed against her still chest, dark locks shrouding her like a funeral veil. Pale skin streaked with red where the tips of the antlers protruded from the flat planes of her belly, and her arms were held aloft- supported by the branches of the antler.

Christ-like, mirroring the humble pose of sacrifice- all that was missing was the tangled crown of thorns and stigmata blossoming in her palm.

Hannibal sighed. “I imagine he would be. He was already feeling overwhelmed with Gideon’s escape and now-” he trailed off, tipping his head in the direction of the display.

“And now, someone decided to gift Abigail with a copycat murder,” Alana muttered bitterly, finally turning her gaze away. Blood pooled on the floor beneath Cassie’s suspended feet, the color of dark plums, traveling through the seams in the wooden planks.

“Curious, though. It is both a copycat of her father’s murders and his murder,” he mused, taking a step forward and lowering his gaze, scrutinizing his own work. He met Cassie on his previous trip to Minnesota, stopping at the gas station she worked overnight in only to receive a glare and muttered remarks when his need of assistance pulled her away from her phone. A slight he would recall and carry with him upon his early morning return to the state. The gas station was small and poorly lit, a desolate fixture on the otherwise empty road and he snuck upon her as she crossed the empty lot with a bag of garbage in hand.

He was considerate enough to finish the task for her, tossing it into the dumpster she had not made it to once she was firmly sealed within the trunk of his car.

“Not entirely Hobbs’s murder. She hasn’t been carved into,” Alana said, arching a brow as she added, “information that was supposed to be kept from the public, but somehow Freddie Lounds got a hold of it. Why hold back on the total recreation then?”

“Hmm, hard to say,” he muttered, glancing up at the sound of approaching feet, low heels clicking on wooden floorboards.

A young woman strode through the room, the dark navy jacket large on her petite frame- the letters FBI emblazoned in gold across the front, bisected by the part of the two halves and the teeth of the zipper. Blonde hair was pulled back, swinging like a pendulum with each step and she blinked at Hannibal as she came to a stop, extending out a hand. “You must be Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Jack told me you would be coming today to help out.” She paused, glancing at the corpse strewn behind him as her painted lips skewed. “Sorry that you sort of got more than you bargained for.”

“No need to apologize. My assistance is always offered to those who need it. I only regret not being able to arrive sooner, but I came over as quickly as I could once my flight came in,” he lied, having arrived in the state before the sun had even risen above the horizon. Long before Abigail and Chilton arrived at the cabin to discover a blood-stained ceiling raining down upon them. Long before he entered it for the second time that day, nearly nine hours later- the yard crowded by CSU vans, the hunting cabin now formally considered a crime scene where once there was uncertainty on the matter.

He bridged the distance between them to take her hand, shaking it firmly. “Jack mentioned a young agent escorting Abigail out here. Might that be you then, Miss-?”

“Miriam Lass,” she supplied. “And yes, Jack personally assigned me to the case. I’m afraid I might have let him down with this.”

“Hannibal and I were just discussing how unusual this kill is,” Alana interjected, folding her arms across her chest. “Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s preferred victim type, but the methodology and display are more evocative of his death than his kills. What do you think?”

Miriam glanced at her, eyes wide, before they slanted, returning to the draped figure before them. She stepped forward, averting her gaze quickly to consider the blood spilled on the floor and stepping around it, careful not to mar her leather heels. Her chin was tilted up to the sky as she gazed at Cassie Boyle’s unseeing eyes, a cataract-like film already distorting the once vibrant blue.

“When I called Jack to tell him about this, I asked him to fax over the file on Hobbs’s murder to the local PD. I wanted to compare them- he thinks the same person who killed Hobbs killed her,” she said, words lowering in her perusal of the body. A gloved finger rose, tapped against the blood-stained tip of an antler. “That would mean the killer to both crimes is in the area.”

Alana moved to stand beside Miriam, the blue booties she wore over her shoes crinkling with the steps. “We profiled the first killer as a vigilante, and that he killed Hobbs because he realized what he was. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe he killed Hobbs to protect Abigail, and _this_ ,” she said, punctuating the word with a wave of her hand in Cassie’s direction, “is a gift for her.”

“Or a threat,” Hannibal added. “Perhaps he’s angry. He believed Abigail to be innocent, a potential victim he could save. Now, he knows she had a role of her own in the murders, and he’s followed her here.”

Alana turned to him swiftly, blinking in alarm. “Where is Abigail now?”

“She’s at her home with Doctor Chilton and a few police officers. She was shaken up after the discovery, we thought it would calm her down to go somewhere familiar,” Miriam answered. It seemed in poor taste; somewhere familiar was also a crime scene of its own. Pipes molded with glue made from bones; homemade throw pillows filled with brown hair. Twenty dead girls to surround her instead of just one.

A cemetery instead of a grave.

He said nothing though, keeping quiet as Miriam added, “I’m not sure I agree that this is the same person. There are aspects of the crime that are similar but there’s something...different about the two. Hobbs’s death was a mockery. He was taunting him. Hobbs hunted the girls he killed like deer. He might have honored them by using every piece of them, but he still treated them like hunting trophies.

“Then he was mounted on antlers- alive at the time, as indicated by blood at the puncture site. Like a taunt- the thing that he hunted had hunted him,” she explained.

“An eye for an eye,” Hannibal mused. “How very first Testament of our killer. But that doesn’t necessarily negate the possibility that this is a threat to Abigail.”

“If he was a vigilante, he wouldn’t kill an innocent girl just to send a message to Abigail. He would just kill her,” Miriam said, taking a step back. She peeled off the gloves, a small stain of red against the white latex like the petal of a rose. “This is a message. But not to Abigail. To the original killer. It’s an homage.”

“A copycat? Good luck telling Jack that one,” Alana muttered, lips pursing tightly.

Hannibal bristled at the word, frowning. He was hardly a copycat- he wasn’t so lazy, so unimaginative that he needed to plagiarize his work off others. A forgery.

“Not a copycat. An homage,” Miriam repeated. “An admirer, maybe, but he wasn’t spurred to kill because of Hobbs’s murderer. He’s done it before. There’s too much organization, no hesitation and so far CSU has found nothing in way of evidence. But he’s a sadist. A sophisticated one and there will be no similar crimes to compare it to. This one was tailor-made for someone else.”

Alana inhaled slowly at the words, jaw clinking as her muscles tensed. “That...sounds like the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Miriam pursed her lips at that. “We’re not in the Chesapeake Bay area.”

“No,” Alana answered, eyes gleaming. “But the similarities are...uncanny. With few exceptions, generally, the more violent and brutal a crime is, the less organized they are. But the Ripper subverts that. And it’s hard to ignore the...” she paused, hesitating on the word as she glanced at Cassie Boyle, lips curling in revulsion. “The theatricality. It’s not entirely unlike the Ripper’s tableaux.”

“Are you suggesting that the Ripper has followed us out here and left us a new victim?” Hannibal asked, quirking an inquisitive brow.

She shook her head, hand fluttering in a dismissive wave before he finished speaking. “No, of course not. Just...noting the similarities, is all.” Her lips twitched, flickering into an insincere smile as she met Hannibal’s gaze. “Maybe I’m just spending too much time with Jack. Starting to see the Ripper everywhere I go.”

Hannibal smiled, lips pulling back to reveal crooked teeth.

~x~

Will didn’t arrive in his dorm until seven in the evening- rolling out of Callie’s bed too late to stop into the room for so much as a change of clothes before he had to leave for class. Even after his final class of the day came to an end it was only with enough time to grab a quick and meager lunch before beginning his shift at the campus bookstore, where he was disappointed to learn that college tours had begun in earnest and he scowled at the too many teenagers littering the shop with their proud parents in tow.

He was thankful when it came time to leave and he could return to the room- thankful that it was one of the days that his roommate worked well into the evening at a nearby supermarket and he would have several hours worth of privacy and quiet in the space. He dropped his backpack against the bookshelf as he pulled the phone from his pocket, hardly giving a thought to the hour as he hit the call button and pressed it to his ear. The soft purr of the ring was muffled by the sound of crinkling packaging, his free hand shoving into the bag of stale Goldfish crackers and shoving a fistful into his mouth just as the ringing came to a clipped end.

“ _Hello, Will,”_ Hannibal answered, his voice a pleasant timbre.

“ ‘Llo,” he responded, speaking through the masticated food on his tongue and he could practically hear the distaste in Hannibal’s voice as he sighed.

“ _You can always call me once you’ve finished eating, you know.”_

Will laughed, rubbing his palm against his thigh to relieve it of the crumbs and salt. “Sorry. Thought I had enough time for some crackers before you answered. Starving,” he said, setting the bag aside.

“ _I wasn’t aware you went to the only university without a functioning cafeteria. Do you always eat children’s snacks for meals?”_ he asked, voice lowered in concern.

Will shrugged, sitting at the head of the bed and leaning against his pillows. “Sometimes. I don’t really like going to the cafeteria, though. Too crowded.” And expensive. He was a good student and his excellent grades procured him a modest enough scholarship but he was mindful of his budgeting- preferring the cash he saved to be used to repay the mounting debt than overpriced sandwiches and salads. “I’ve always been more of a grazer anyway. Eating snacks is easier than sitting down to a meal for me.”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, though said nothing else. There was the sound of movement, the squeaking shout of cheap bedsprings and Will furrowed his brow. “Where are you?”

“ _My motel room in Minnesota,”_ came the answer, followed shortly by, _“I did tell you Jack needed me in Minnesota.”_

Will sneered. “Yeah, I know. It’s not the Minnesota part that confused me, it was the motel. I know there probably aren’t many five-star hotels there, but I thought for sure you’d at least swing for a three-star one. Or maybe a quaint bed and breakfast,” he teased.

“ _The block of rooms was purchased by the FBI in anticipation of all of them being filled. It seemed a waste to not use it and it’s sanitary enough,”_ he answered. _“And there are certain merits to be said about sharing a wall with Chilton. For us, of course. Not for him.”_

Will grinned, his laugh a soft sound in the stillness around him. “Planting evidence already?”

“ _He left Abigail a gift this morning,”_ he answered coyly, his unrestrained delight slipping through the syllables. _“Alana was quick to note that the as of yet unidentified kill bore similar styling to a Ripper kill.”_

“How intuitive,” Will remarked dryly, tone souring at the mention of Doctor Bloom. She was a source of much bitterness in this regard, never entirely certain just how close she and Hannibal were. He knew Hannibal enjoyed mentioning her- particularly with the casual use of her first name- to prickle at the delicate nerves of a teenage crush. An adoration he had for her that had once made the sting of her rejection all the more painful; a sharp reminder of just how shameful his own mind was.

Of course, years had passed and whatever fancy he had for her had gone with it- the way that such feelings often did in youth. Yet each mention of her name from Hannibal’s tongue brought with it the twist of something in his gut, a sharp turn in his mood and he was beginning to suspect that his jealousy on the matter had not entirely dissipated but had simply shifted. An unflattering prospect but one that crooked and contorted within him, made all the more poisonous in the revelation.

_She_ was exactly the sort of person he could envision Hannibal with. _She_ made sense, an appropriate idol for him to cast his love upon. She was older, more adult, and stunning; soft curves and radiant skin. Her smile was wide and kind and her eyes twinkled with a joyful gleam. A humbleness that did not heed her ability to match Hannibal’s sophistication.

She would not need a private balcony in order to feel comfortable in a theater and she would not sit with a pout at galas or crowded dinner parties, wishing in vain for the minutes to hasten until she could finally leave. She settled into Hannibal’s world with enviable ease while Will would stumble, seem forever out of place.

Alana simply made more sense for him, and there would be fewer obstacles. Less scrutiny placed upon them for the myriad of reasons to choose from. And she would not falter the way Will did with intimacy- would not struggle to receive or return touches. Would not test the bounds and strains of his patience with the practice of touch the way Will had, and his cheeks colored at the memory. His own foolishness and trepidation.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, running a hand through his hair. “For last night, I mean. I shouldn’t have...it wasn’t fair to you, I was just trying to-”

“ _I know what you were trying to do,”_ Hannibal said, his tone measured. _“Did you get what you needed from it?”_

He blinked, recalling the slow but steady unfurling of his anxiety. The calm that eased into place and the warmth that simmered in his belly, the feel of Hannibal’s skin beneath his palm still tingling against the flesh of his hand. “Yes.”

“ _Good,”_ he answered, the word spoken through a smile. _“Though I hope you aren’t doing it for the wrong reasons. I meant what I said about needing nothing more, Will.”_

He exhaled, eyes pinching closed. “I know. But I just...I don’t want to be like this, is all. It’s not for you, it’s for me,” he muttered, fingers pulling at a loose thread on his shirt, the flannel worn and soft in age.

Nothing was said between them for some time, the emptiness filled by the steady drone of the fan perched in the window between the two beds, the occasional rise of voices from the parking lot below. When Hannibal finally did speak, it was almost in a hush- his voice all softened edges the way one might speak to a lover in bed and it sent pleasant shivers that reverberated down each knot of his spine. _“I’d like to be able to touch you if you’ll let me. The way you touched me. Nothing inappropriate, just so that you can become familiar with it,”_ he said, and the request made Will’s breath halt in his throat, lungs burning in need.

He thought of Hannibal’s hand pressing against the planes of his stomach; following the arch of his sternum and the indentations of his lean muscle. Of being vulnerable to the touches and his swallow was harsh, loud in the quiet. He had never liked hands- they were always a source of anxiety, a threat waiting to be realized and he pushed them off of his person as best as he could- tolerating the tousling of his curls because it was pleasant enough and often kept the hands from delving elsewhere.

Yet, he never really had much of a fear for Hannibal’s. Or at least, whatever fear had existed was replaced by appreciation long ago. They were talented hands, after all. Surgically precise in each task he set himself to. Whether it was cooking, drawing, playing the harpsichord, or cutting someone apart. Just as capable of destruction as they were creation and the beauty of the work they crafted was enough for him to swallow his fear. To consider them curiously instead of in concern- as if waiting for a beast in repose to lurch forward. “Maybe. We can try, I guess,” he said, both intrigued by the thought of those hands touching him- _knowing him_ \- and hesitant of it. “I want to be able to, it just isn’t that easy.”

“ _I’m sure it isn’t. Have you tried...meditating, by any chance?”_ Hannibal asked, the words drawn out coyly and heavy with innuendo as if Will might not understand what he meant.

He scoffed, resettling against the pillows of his bed as he mumbled, “I don’t think you’re talking about fishing. Or yoga.”

The chuckle was a crisp crackle against his ear. _“You think correctly.”_

“No, I haven’t,” he mumbled, cheeks warming in embarrassment even as he forced the words out. The veil of modesty seemed ill-fitting now that so much had come to pass between. A crutch that he couldn’t use forever even if he would amble and limp without it for some time. “I don’t really...it doesn’t always work anyway, I just get frustrated. And I’m not entirely sure how one goes about _meditating_ during such a task.”

A moment passed, filled by the soft crackle of a hum before Hannibal said, _“I can guide you through it, if you like.”_

Will blinked, lips pinching tightly at the suggestion. “I’m sorry?”

“ _Nothing lewd, I assure you. Just a guided exercise to help keep you grounded. You can put yourself on mute if it helps. And if you get uncomfortable or would like to stop at any time, just say so and I’ll respect that. Or hang up, if it’s easier,”_ Hannibal explained, and the words were said with a smile, sincerity warming them even as something twisted in his gut at the implication.

His mouth was open, a sharp _no_ sitting on his tongue. It was an impossible enough task with only himself to contend with. He doubted an audience- or a partial audience, finding comfort in the thought that Hannibal wouldn’t be able to see him at least- would help the matter any. And there was a rise of indignation- not unlike bile rising up his throat- at the thought that he was being toyed with. Used as nothing more than a masturbatory aid for the man himself but the thought came to a quick, severed end.

Hannibal wouldn’t do that. He had once watched the same man open a bottle of several thousand dollar wine to accompany a pig’s final dinner because it was the polite thing to do. Etiquette often mattered more to him than his penchant for cruelty and using Will for something so crude would be inconsiderate, a breach in decorum he would never allow. It was a genuine offer of help, the same offer that Will had indulged in the night prior, touching him for the better part of an hour until the blaring siren that filled his head had quieted down.

His experiment, however awkward it began, was a success. Perhaps this one might be too.

He swallowed thickly, nervously rubbing his palm against his jean-clad thigh, clammy with sweat. “Alright, I guess. We can try,” he mumbled. His chest felt thick, full with trembling nerves and a heart hammering harshly against his ribs. “How does it...I mean what do I-” he started, mouth opening and closing several times as he struggled to find the right words.

“ _Right now, you have a hard time processing sexual stimulation because you associate it negatively,”_ he said, mercifully taking control of the conversation. His tone was clinical, dispassionate, and Will was thankful for it. It made the process seem less personal, less humiliating, and awkward than it really was and he tried to grasp for the steadying and cold slant of the syllables to keep himself from spiraling. _“Even if the sensations are generally pleasurable, your mind has difficulty perceiving it as a positive experience. So the goal is for you to keep your mind attuned to your body and the sensations. To unlearn its response with positive reinforcement, in a way.”_

He bit out a sharp, hollow laugh. “Positive reinforcement. I sound like a science experiment,” he muttered, a sigh following the empty space between his words before Hannibal could argue his assessment. “Okay so what exactly do we... _do?”_ He winced at his wording, biting his lip harshly enough that he pulled at the dry flakes of skin. He was thankful that so much distance sat between them, the phone cradled to his ear allowing only their voices to carry through the miles separating them. His face was certainly an unattractive shade of maroon by now, ears bright pink as the blush spread, and the muscles of his jaw and neck were straining against his flesh as he tried to maintain his composure.

Hannibal’s voice was warm when he next spoke, trace amounts of humor threading through the otherwise clinical tone of voice. _“I will make a few suggestions, to begin with, you will do what feels natural, and I will ask questions for you to answer- nonverbally, if you prefer- to keep your mind from straying.”_

Will frowned, licking his lips. “Questions?”

“ _Nothing invasive, I assure you,”_ he was quick to say, and he sighed a breath of relief. _“Just questions to keep you from dissociating. Dissociation is the brain’s way of protecting itself- protection your brain has learned to use_ _in_ _judiciously. Now you must unlearn it.”_ There was a pause, and then Hannibal asked, _“Will you be putting yourself on mute?”_

He pinched his lips, considering the possibility. It was a tempting prospect, a facade of security between the man speaking him through the actions and the action themselves. A barrier to keep the two separate, a dissociation in its own right.

He frowned at the thought, shaking his head slowly before remembering- foolishly- that the motion would not be seen. “No, I’ll just...” he trailed off, not bothering to explain his intent to _keep quiet_ or simply twist the phone away to hide any sounds that might slip past his tightly pinched lips. He trusted Hannibal- trusted that it was not a perverse game on his part, a search for fodder of his own that would leave Will feeling stripped and vulnerable and used. It would be rude, and despite his depravities, Hannibal did have his own contorted but steady moral code. A strict guideline of behavior that he applied to himself just as he applied it to the world at large, making the discourtesy of others all the more grievous.

Will had one of his own too, he supposed. An indecipherable set of ethics that he could not explain to others but felt _just_ and _right_ to himself.

He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair and disheveling the curls. “So, how do we...start?” He tried not to let his throat pinch in humiliation, the words high-pitched and strained but it was, admittedly, a struggle.

“ _You’re in your dormitory, I presume?”_ Hannibal asked. Will hummed in the affirmative, having to bite back a snicker as he imagined the man next asking _what are you wearing?_

Instead, Hannibal asked, _“do you feel safe there?”_

Will blinked at the question, so jarringly unlike the sort of lewd, sexual questions he expected that it took him several long, stretching seconds to answer. “Um...I feel...fine here? I don’t think...I mean, I feel _safe?_ ” It was by no means a luxurious setup- the mattress was thin and too hard for his liking, and the window overlooking the parking lot was a poor filter for the constant noise- the loud chatter of students milling on the sidewalk below, punctuated by laughter. The constant rumble of tires over the asphalt and music blaring noisily from inconsiderate drivers who lingered in the lot.

But he didn’t feel unsafe- he was probably the most dangerous thing lurking the campus, and there was some comfort in the knowledge that the monster obscured in the shadows was one he knew and made peace with.

“ _If you feel safe then why did you pose it as_ _a_ _question instead of a statement?”_ Hannibal asked, and Will frowned, letting the silence sit between them until the older man prodded once more. _“Do you feel comfortable there? Do you feel safe enough to let your mind relax, I mean?”_

“No,” Will answered, the word pulled from him so quickly and easily it could be nothing but the truth. “There’s no privacy. It feels a bit like...I’m a guest here, intruding on my roommate. It’s stressful.”

“ _I’m sure. Lie back on your bed if you haven’t already and try to imagine you’r_ _e_ _somewhere else then. Focus entirely on turning the setting into one that you do feel comfortable and safe in. Your bedroom_ _in_ _your home, perhaps. You have your own blankets_ _you brought with you_ _, correct?”_ he asked.

Will sighed as he shuffled down so he was lying supine on the narrow bed, the furniture creaking with the movement and bringing with it a new, peeling wave of embarrassment. In answer, he curled his fingers around the quilt he brought with him from home, the one that had once sat folded on the end of his grandparent’s bed and that his dad had given to him when he decided he was too old for the juvenile blanket of his childhood. It was soft in age, the fabric worn and pilling on the sewn together squares and it smelled like home. The crisp scent of leaves and dirt from the woods surrounding the farmhouse and the velvet warmth of his dogs, sharp scents against the thick yet faint smell of smoke from the wood-burning fireplace they used on chilly nights.

It smelled like home, and he could sink into the comfort of that. Easily envisioning himself stretched out on his bed, the faint sound of claws tapping against wooden floors as the dogs wandered around. The sound of wind whipping through the branches of trees and barks echoing around the vast, isolated space. It was loud in its own way- not the obvious, irritating way that the campus was loud but in a soothing way. An embrace of the noises of life that pulsed around him, enveloping him with such natural, wonderful richness.

He was so lost in his thoughts, the world crafting itself around him that he had almost forgotten the phone pressed against the shell of his ear, Hannibal’s voice startling him from the lull of his memory as he said, _“Once you feel more comfortable,_ _I’d like you to set the palm of your right hand on the center of your chest, fingers splayed. Underneath your shirt, so you can feel the warmth of your skin.”_

“Why?” he asked, eyes held closed as he tried to keep himself fixed in a moment outside the one he existed in, envisioning the familiar walls of his home and all the comfort and privacy that came with it. He was doing as Hannibal instructed though, shirt rucking up as he slid his hand over the planes of his stomach, resting his hand on the center of his chest. His heart fluttered under the touch, a steady beat beneath the flesh and bones and muscle surrounding it. Layers of protection that didn’t quite muffle it.

“ _A clutch. A physical reminder that you are present and in control. If at any point you feel overwhelmed, or if you are losing control, try to focus on the beat of your heart and the rise and fall of your breaths. Focus on evening them out and keeping them level, to exert control over yourself and remember that your body is your own,”_ he explained simply, and Will rolled his head to the side, pinching the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his hands, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded erratically beneath his palm.

Trepidation made the pulse harsh, dread sitting heavy in his stomach and it wasn’t going to work. He was already beginning to panic, the realization of what was to come a startling collision. He wasn’t aroused in the slightest, a fact that seemed unlikely to change as his breaths became jagged, anticipation making the ivory bones of his ribs bear down on him, squeezing his breaths.

“You’re not focusing, Will,” Hannibal chided, and Will scoffed.

“I _am_ focusing. That’s the problem.” He grounded the words between his teeth, gritting in discomfort.

“ _Take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds, expelling the air slowly,”_ Hannibal instructed, and Will grimaced, though did as he was told, feeling his lungs expand beneath his ribs, hand sinking with the fall. _“Remember it’s just you, Will. Nothing you do not wish to happen will happen, you are completely in control of yourself and the moment. You can even shut me up with the simple press of a button, for once.”_

The quip eased some of the tension making his muscles taut, and he continued to breathe. To feel the slowing beat of his heart beneath all the layers of protection. Armor made of flesh and bone. “I just...don’t see how I can do this. The thought of it is awkward enough.”

“ _I imagine it is, yes,”_ Hannibal agreed, his tone still detached. Methodical. _“Would you like to stop?”_

Yes, he did. But there was a part of him, a desperate part of him that wanted the technique to work. Wanted the awkwardness and discomfort to be rewarded with the normalcy he craved. The ability to feel and exist within his body without feeling like a stranger in his skin.

And of course, there was the sheer _frustration_ of it all. A building and mounting pressure he could not relieve, settling at the base of his spine like a physical thing. He was young. Otherwise physically healthy and it was torturous, an unsatisfied need making his blood acidic and temper flare. He craved the relief and despised the fact that he was utterly broken, so dysfunctional that he couldn’t find it like a normal twenty-year-old man.

He wanted to try because he wanted it to work, even if there was a different sort of loathing that came with needing to be guided through something so natural. He could swallow this brand of it, learn to stomach it if it came with the relief he had been fruitlessly chasing after.

“No,” he mumbled, inhaling slowly and settling into the world he built at the moment. Sinking into the memory of his own familiar bed and surrounded by the smells of home, the symphony of his life when he wasn’t pulled into this half-world. Focused on the feel of his heart and lungs working in conjunction beneath his palm.

“ _Very well. If you’d like to continue then, keep your right hand on your chest and use your left to touch yourself. However you like, it doesn’t necessarily have to be sexual. Simply explore and pay attention to what feels pleasant,”_ he said, and Will pinched his lips, slowly settling the fingers of his left hand against the front of his jeans. A delicate, trembling touch over the brass button, slowly pushing it through until it popped open.

He hesitated, pulling his hand back and settling it instead on the smooth contours of his stomach, feeling the indents created by the muscle beneath. It was too much for _that_ at the moment, he decided, drawing the inevitable out by tracing his fingertips idly over the planes of his torso instead. He rarely touched himself in such a delicate way, neither sexual nor entirely innocent and it was odd but not unpleasant.

Sensual was the word that came to mind at his gentle caresses but the word seemed ridiculous in a context such as this. Sensual was something loving and adoring and passionate between two lovers and this was a _science experiment_. A psychological exercise separate from any sort of romance or sexuality and the thought left a bitter taste on his tongue, like the film left behind when a pill sat for too long and dissolved.

He pushed the thought from his mind, focusing on his touch as he became more adventurous in his exploration, using his flattened palm already on his chest to shift ever to the right, brushing against the soft bud of his nipple.

He had never been touched in such a way, by himself or another. He supposed it was simply a less interesting focal point and had gone ignored in favor of others. His touch lingered there, enjoying the sense of _ownership_ from touching something so generally untouched and he languished under the attention.

He rolled the bud between his fingers, pinching it experimentally and inhaling sharply when each touch sent a shock of sensations through him. His veins felt like a live wire, currents of arousal like electricity that trembled down his spine and arms, up and down his tensing legs and settling at the apex of his thighs, pooling at his spine.

Sensitive in a way he had not anticipated, and he pinched his lips tighter together to seal back the gasp that sat in his throat, surprised by how responsive he was. It was strange, really. He always made certain to pay attention to the responses of his partner, to learn which touch elicited which gasp and moan and committing them to memory. Compensation for his inadequacies that, if nothing else, he could make it as pleasurable as possible. A consideration he had not extended for himself, a stranger in his own skin and he was only just now aware of how unaware he had been of his own body. What he did or did not enjoy. His nipples pebbled beneath the rough, calloused fingers of his hand, each touch a spark of molten heat.

He swallowed thickly, shifting slightly on the bed so his legs were more spread. He was hard now, his erection pressing uncomfortably against the confines of his suddenly too-tight jeans and he let his hand slide back down his torso, the right palm settling back in the center of his chest to feel the thrumming beat of his heart and the quickening breath. It was a pleasant touch, but not enough to satisfy the ache stirring within him and he thought he might honest to god _cry_ if it didn’t work.

If his arousal would once more go unabated and his embarrassment be for naught.

Hannibal had yet to say anything, the phone warm against where it was pressed to his face and he licked his lips, wondering if the man was truly as detached by the whole affair as he sounded when he spoke or if the impassivity of the words were donned for Will’s comfort. He tried to imagine Hannibal, sitting on the other end of the line in silence, surely aware of what Will was _feeling_ at this moment.

Was he swallowing thickly as well, hard beneath his neatly pressed slacks as he strained to hear the changing nuances in Will’s breath? Was he clutching the phone in a painfully tight grasp, the other hand digging into the blanket of the cheap motel bed beneath him to refrain from touching himself? The thought was an odd one, one that brought with it another crashing wave of arousal that made his veins hot and his knees bend reflexively, toes curling into the mattress.

Did he touch himself to the thought of Will, envisioning him in all sorts of salacious moments? Replacing Will in his mind with something less uncertain, more wanton and needy? Or did he envision others instead? People less complicated to the prospect of touch? People who would be less conflicted with whatever filthy scenario his mind might create?

That was an odd thought as well, but not the exhilarating sort that the other one had been. More sobering than thrilling and he felt all at once like a burden.

“ _You’re getting lost in your thoughts already, aren’t you?”_ Hannibal said, his voice tugging him sharply into the present and he frowned, disappointed to find he was already beginning to soften.

“How do you know?” he muttered, once more trying to tether himself. Heart pulsing beneath his palm, lungs expanding with each breath. Surrounded by the comforting smells of home; crisp leaves and dirt, the velvety warmth of his dogs. The sweet and lemony aroma of herbs and a familiar cologne that he could not name.

“ _I just do,”_ Hannibal answered, smug arrogance rounding the vowels. _“How are you feeling?”_

The word _fine_ was readied on his tongue, but he swallowed it back, knowing it was not what Hannibal meant. He sighed, exhaling slowly as he felt his body- alive and warm and his own- beneath his right hand, his cock half-hard from the arousal still seeping into him. He grasped the pull to his zipper, working it down slowly over the metal teeth as if the sound of it would be too obscene in the empty room. As if Hannibal would hear it and it shouldn’t have mattered because there was no illusion of what he was supposed to be doing so why bother with the pretense of modesty?

His erection sprung free, the crown of his cock slipping past the seam of his boxers and he considered working himself that way- mostly dressed and perfunctory as he had always done- before pushing them and the jeans down instead. He kicked the tangled mess of clothing off onto the floor, too exposed without them.

He wasn’t certain how he was feeling, his thoughts too cluttered to make sense of them but he was warm and desperate for release and he grasped hold of that sensation, tried to ignore his strange and somber thoughts that somehow felt more personal than this. Twining his fingers in the dark curls at the base of his shaft and tugging on them gently while the phone sat hot on his face somehow made him feel less vulnerable than his earlier ruminations and he let the feel of his own touch consume him. Distract him from the precipice he always seemed to straddle.

His hand slid away from the curls, smoothing against the soft skin of his inner thigh and, with all the curiosity of someone who didn’t know what else to do, dragged his nails across it. The pain was sharp and stinging, and a hiss escaped his lips before he could seal the sound away. His cock twitched, arousal flaring once more within him and he chased after it.

How was he _feeling_?

Like his anxiety had a permanent hold on him, more a cluster of neuroses and psychoses than a person and he was frustrated and stressed and bitter that something from so long ago still controlled him so much and he just really wanted to be normal.

“I feel like I want to come,” he muttered, eyes widening with the realization that he spoke aloud. His blush was so strong it was feverish, and his muscles pulled taut, tense in his surge of mortification. “I mean-”

He was interrupted by a soft chuckle. _“Your meaning was clear, I think.”_ His flushed deepened and he pinched his lips together to try and keep from saying anything else he might regret, having to resist the desire to snap the phone away and hang up. _“Try to relax, and hopefully that will happen._ _How are you feeling otherwise?_ _”_

He sighed, bringing his hand up to his mouth and spitting into his palm as discreetly as he could manage. “Nervous. My heart’s racing. But I’m-” he hesitated over the word. “I’m hard.” His hand curled around his cock, pulling a sharp hiss in response at the touch, the spit-slicked skin sliding easily down his shaft.

“ _Are you touching yourself?”_

He hummed in response, a tremor once more running down his spine. It was a heady mix, the feel of his hand working over the sensitive flesh in conjunction with the rich timbre of Hannibal’s deep voice, even if it was restrained. Absent of the arousal that had flooded it in the single utterance of Will’s name as he began undoing his shirt the night prior.

“ _Focus on your touch and how it feels in relation to yourself. Whether a firm or lighter grip feels better, a slow or faster drag. Pay attention to the thrum of your heart. How is it now?”_ Hannibal asked, prompting Will to slow the drag of his hand, focusing on the press of his palm against the hard lines of his chest.

His heart pulsed rapidly beneath the fevered skin, the familiar tremble of anxiety, pulse crawling up into something tilted and uneven. The moments of gradual panic before it plateaued into an attack and he was left aching and soft and unsatisfied. He swallowed, a preemptive twinge of humiliation creeping into him. It was embarrassing enough when he was on his own, the pressure of an audience making his hand move faster, his grip firmer. Hoping that he might be able to outrun the trickle of anxiety before it could claim him.

“Unsteady. Fast,” he answered, words clipped as his focus diverted- trying desperately to squeeze the pleasure from him before it was lost in the throes of his disordered mind and dysfunctional body.

“ _Your heart rate increases both in arousal and fear. Do what you need to do in order to remind yourself it isn’t in fear,”_ Hannibal explained, the calm and measured pull of his voice dragging Will away from the teetering plummet of his thoughts. Grounding him once more to the feel of his body beneath his touch and the crackle of his voice through the mechanical speaker. _“Slow, or even cease touching yourself for the moment until it steadies. Don’t try to force yourself through it, it will only worsen your anxiety. You need to remind yourself that you're in control of yourself and the sensations you're feeling.”_

He disliked the idea of prolonging it, frowning at the thought of whatever degree of success he managed to clasp would slip through his fingers. But he obliged, releasing hold of himself in a shuddering breath and bringing his hand to rest across the plane of his stomach. Fingertips brushed against the flesh, tracing the sharp jut of his hip bones and crossing the flattened bridge between them. His cock bobbed, twitching with the need for attention but he purposefully ignored it, letting his heart rate drop to something calmer- something that didn’t feel like it was hammering against his chest in an attempt to break free.

“ _Take steady breaths, letting your lungs fill fully before releasing them entirely,”_ Hannibal beckoned, and he did so, nostrils flaring with each inhalation, the exhales a low sigh through his lips.

When the din of panic had receded and his heart was a soft flutter beneath his touch, his hand slid back to the curve of his erection, gasping with the renewed stimulation, unsullied by the ache in his chest. He worked himself, feather-light touches that became firmer- slow tugs quickening. His arousal pooled, a fluid heat at the base of his spine, and each pull of his hand brought with it a twist of pleasure. Electricity hot in his veins, a conduit for the stimulation.

Precome beaded from the slit, and he brought his palm so it rested over the head, fingers experimentally pressing against the ridged feel of the cartilage beneath velveteen skin as he smeared the precome. When he wrapped his hand around the shaft once more, it was with the soft and wet glide of the natural lubrication and a groan rumbled deep in his chest.

It wasn’t enough, the grip of his hand not nearly enough and he planted his feet firmly against the mattress, knees bent as he thrust his hips up into the circle of his fist. Fucking into himself with wanton delight, unbothered by the thready moan that slipped past his lips at the new and wonderful sensation.

“ _Remember, Will, you don’t have to answer verbally, but what are you feeling now? Not just emotionally, but physically as well,”_ Hannibal asked, his voice tethering him even as his head felt lofty, careening recklessly and he inhaled, forcing himself to pay attention to something other than the prickling heat at the apex of his thighs.

His heart was a solid press against his ribs, though the rhythm it set was even, void of the tell-tale palpitations that were the harbinger of panic. The rush of his pulse echoed in his skull, not entirely unlike the riotous waves of an ocean and his breath was turning into pants, his chest rising and falling with the sharp, unfulfilled inhalations. The muscles of his groin were pulled taut, quivering with the tension and a tremor ran down his legs, knees shaking from their bent position in the air. His hips still rose, canting forward in search of something he desperately wanted and the swollen tip of his cock as it reappeared between his unmoving fist was glistening with more precome. “Tense. But in a good way,” he was quick to amend, teeth clacking together from the strain of his jaw. The pressure was mounting, reaching a fever pitch that he was familiar with even if he rarely ventured past and he added, “C-close.”

“ _Would you like me to be quiet then?”_

“N-no. Could you...I mean, could you tell me how you would touch me? If I let you?” The question came out in a pant, hitching over jagged breaths. It was a request that would have normally brought shame with it, the confession that he was not only _enjoying_ having Hannibal hear him in such a delicate, private moment but that he was _getting off to it_. Chasing the delectable shiver of his rich voice as it curled around him, prickling his nerves raw.

It was hard to feel shame in such a moment, though. It would come later, he was certain, but the quivering twitch of his abdomen and the fullness of his pink member in his tight fist drove away any self-doubt. Singularly focusing on the pleasure which was so tantalizingly close, perched on the edge and welcoming the plummet.

“ _I would touch you slowly, letting you get used to the feel of my hands on you before moving further. Over your clothes first, enjoying the softness of your shirt as I smoothed it out against your skin. I would start at your shoulders, then trace my way to the back of your neck. I’d rub my hands down your back, as you’re already comfortable with that and it will help ease you into the touch,”_ he explained, voice low and gritted as if struggling to keep the words from slanting in arousal. To remain prim and poised even as Will began to whimper, eyes pinched tightly closed as he imagined the feel of a warm palm smoothing across his back. An innocent gesture but one that felt wholly intimate. _Sensual_ , he thought once more, saliva pooling behind his chattering teeth as the tension in his body mounted.

“ _Once you’ve relaxed into that touch, I would move my hands to your front, feeling your chest and stomach. I would take my time tracing you as if I were drawing your form instead of touching it. Trace the arch of your spine and the curve of each rib. I’d like to feel your heartbeat, see how it matches my own.”_

His toes curled, feet sliding along the mattress and pulling the sheet with it- tugging it loose from the corners. Precome dribbled down his hands, the velvety smooth skin gliding with each drag of his hands, and the thrust of his hips had become uneven. Sharp and jerking motions as he rose to meet the downward tug of his hand.

“ _I would do the same once you were bare, though I imagine I would be slower. Not only for your comfort but for my own greed as well. I would like to take the time to admire you. Cream-colored skin flushing pink, mottled with the lovely blush you wear so often. I would enjoy watching your face, careful to make certain it didn’t shift from anything other than pleasure.”_

Will’s lips pulled back, a low and strangled groan squeezed from his lungs, the sound of his fevered breaths and wet slap of his skin a lewd and obscene sound. The phone was hot against his face, neck aching with the crane of the angle to keep his ear pressed against the speaker but it was blotted out. Forgotten as he inched closer and closer to his climax- a tangible thing now, the weight of his balls rising in preparation, his cock full and swollen.

The words came to a tapered end, silence pressing against his ear and he wined at the loss, a garbled plea for Hannibal to continue readied on his lips when he spoke once more, offering only a single command. _“Come for me, Will.”_

He did, back rising so he was bent like a bow, the hand that had settled over his racing heart sliding to support his weight as he lifted off the bed. It was almost painful in its intensity, a long-anticipated but much sought after relief ripped from his chest, bones splintered and flesh torn. His cry echoed around the room, broken by sobs and the twitch of his hips was unsteady, his cock pulsing with each spurt of come. It was warm and thick as it coated his hands, matting the dark curls at the base of his shaft. His eyes were squeezed shut, his vision turned to shadows that shifted and shimmered, interspersed with stars bursting and colliding in technicolor sparks.

His heart was a staccato on his ribs, his pulse hot and resonating in his flesh so that he felt each undulation of his veins, and once the firm clench of his belly loosened he slumped back against the mattress. Boneless and weightless, limps sluggish in the cottony-soft shroud of post-orgasmic bliss.

The hand that held his cock had shifted, pulling away from the too-sensitive touch and rested on his belly, unconcerned by the smear of come that he dragged across his skin. Too content in the afterglow of such pleasure, a dissonant ringing filling his ears as he fluttered down from the euphoric high.

His breath had turned labored, exhaustive pants as he collected the shards that he had shattered into- focusing on each shaky exhalation and trying to mirror it with the steadying descent of his heartbeat. An equilibrium to be found in the usual cacophony of his body and his relief was palpable, a tension that seemed fixed in the foundation of his person finally relieved, a drunken contentedness that seemed unfamiliar making his hazy. 

Time passed, an indeterminable amount and it wasn’t enough but he forced himself to move- aware that the phone had been lost in the crest of his pleasure and the come on his skin was drying, becoming an uncomfortable itch that spurred him forward. He was languid, a laziness that pervaded and seeped into his bones as he reached for the box of tissues beside his bed, repeating the task of wiping himself several times until he was as clean as could be managed without a shower.

He might honestly drown if he attempted such, so he allowed the perfunctory level of hygiene to be enough for now. Swooping a hand downward, he shook his boxers free from the inside-out legs of his discarded jeans and shimmied them on over his legs, lowering his shirt as he settled down in bed once more. He found the phone in the tangled mess of his blanket- still in call as Hannibal patiently waited for him, and he brought it to his ear as he twisted on his side, letting the pillow hold it close as he bunched the blankets over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, unsure of what else to say. The word was low, ground out through a tired jaw, and on a thick, uncooperative tongue. As if each tissue, each cell of his person had been drained in the force of his release and still he couldn't muster any shame in the face of his lewdness. That the modesty he began the task with had been so thoroughly tossed to the side it was almost absurd but the tremble of his heavy limbs from the residual aftershocks resonated with each pulse. A reminder that any embarrassment has been worth it in the end and he stretched his legs out, shifting them across the tangled sheets made warm in his thrashing. 

The answering chuckle was soft- more fond than amused. _“How are you feeling now?”_

Will scoffed, burrowing his face deeper into the pillow as his eyes fluttered closed, the weight of his eyelids too much to bear. “Like I could use a nap.”

“ _I believe that at this hour in the evening, it could hardly be called a nap,”_ Hannibal mused and Will could only manage a grunt in response. _“I’ll let you get to sleep, th-”_

“No, wait,” he interrupted, head lifting up minutely before flopping back against the pillow. He blinked, forcing his eyes open and staring at the bare wall in front of him- a color just a shade too dark to be white. “I mean...I don’t want to hang up yet.”

He might have been bothered by the pathetic pitch in his voice, the unattractive need in his words but his usual sharpened criticism of himself was muted. Too content to overthink and he didn’t care how needy it sounded because he would rather have Hannibal near- as near as could be managed, at least- than have nothing at all.

“ _You’re tired, you’ll be asleep in minutes,”_ he said, though it was not unkind.

“I won’t. I promise. Just give me a minute, I’ll wake up,” he said, biting back a yawn. “Just...talk about an opera or some pretentious book in the meantime.”

Hannibal scoffed, muttering something incoherent that was too distorted through the phone, but eventually, the soothing cadence of his voice was once more filling Will's ear as he said, _“Recently, I was rereading_ Crime and Punishment _, though in the original Russian. I’ve always found that the translation of texts- though necessary in making all works of literature accessible- has a tendency to lose some of the passion and sincerity of its mother language. I’m not as comfortable with Russian as I am other languages, but I supposed that worked in my favor, as it forced me to slow down and properly consume the story in a way I hadn’t when I first read it in English.”_

Hannibal paused, listening to soft snores that filtered through the speaker as Will slumbered before continuing, lowering his words to a quiet and pleasant lull against the backdrop of his dreams.

“ _I’ve always had a fondness for the novel, despite a few disagreements with the central theme of it all. Or rather, I suppose what I’m really fond of is the protagonist, as I’ve often felt that literature loses a critical eye for character development and depth in the matter when the character acts the role of a villain, which isn’t the case here. Furthermore, there are few novels that properly explore and give satisfaction to the concept of the protagonist as his own antagonist, which is a shame as it’s a compelling dynamic...”_

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What weird context for smut, huh? Don’t worry. The next instance of phone sex is a bit more traditional ;)
> 
> NEXT UP: Hannibal’s good luck works in his favor with another murder. Will starts to feel a bit more certain about a lot of things. (Sorry, no smut in this chapter. But soon...)


	17. Deliverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Some more NSFW content. Also another long chapter.
> 
> Relevant tags: masturbation.

**Chapter Sixteen: Deliverance**

“I’ve never liked funeral homes,” Alana muttered, lowering her head so that the words were passed in secret between her and Hannibal. They sat in the back of the viewing room, several rows of empty chairs between them and the front row, Abigail sitting with her head bowed between Miriam Lass and another agent. The casket was placed on the dais at the head, polished oak opened wide to reveal the buttery satin of the lining, Louise Hobbs set within.

The makeup was thick- it always was, the heavy hand of a mortician needed to obscure the pallor of death. Thick foundation settling on the pores and the fine lines dragging across her face, pink rouge a burst of color. Mauve colored lipstick which tried and failed to blur the glisten of glue that pinched the lips together- taupe eye shadow hiding the ridge of the eye caps which held the lid closed. A mask of life embossed over the one of death.

As if death was so ugly a concept it needed to beautified, made tolerable and digestible with cosmetics and proclamations of how natural one looked- dressed in stiff clothing and reeking of embalming fluid. _It looks like they’re sleeping._

A humorous notion, as Hannibal had seen death and sleep enough times to see the minute differences. The subtle traces of life held even in the still clamp of slumber.

She didn’t look like she was sleeping. They never do.

“It’s natural to have a dislike for funeral homes. They have seen more death and grief than you or myself can ever fathom. And it absorbs them, holds them in the upholstery and carpeting and walls of the home. It’s easy to feel unmoored by that,” he responded, tipping his own head towards her and lowering his voice. The service had yet to begin, but he mirrored her quiet all the same. An etiquette to the process of mourning he would respect.

Her lips twitched into a small smile. “I think it’s just because of the décor. Always traditional but really sparse. Like it’s trying to feel like a lived-in home and not...you know,” she said, flourishing a hand between them as if to gesture at the room in question.

“A stage of the dead?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It feels insincere. Too cozy without actually being cozy,” she finished, punctuating the words with a sigh. She lowered her voice even further, as if it might travel in the too large, too empty space- travel across the rows of empty chairs- and added, “I can’t imagine the guilt she’s feeling. She must feel like all of this is her fault.”

“Louise Hobbs began seeing a psychiatrist shortly after her husband’s violent murder. She had been struggling for some time,” he said- neither in defense nor concession to the sentiment.

They fell quiet as the pastor rose to stand in the front of the podium, delivering the services to the small collection of mourners. The voice was properly solemn, a career spent honing and training the faux sorrow to present to others, wrapping around generalized words and the more personal ones slipped within. A template for a prayer to guide another into the next life with blank spaces not unlike a mad-libs activity pad.

How quaint.

The time came for heads to bow, eyes to pinch close as everyone was invited to join in on the Lord’s Prayer, spoken aloud, or in silent reverie. Crowns of heads tipped forward in humility and Hannibal took the opportunity to observe the room unheeded by the prying eyes, the prayer rising around him in the uncertain warble of those whose worship was done only in times of convenience.

‘ _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallow be Thy name,’_ came the answering call of several voices, out of step and with no discernible tempo. Hannibal spoke the prayer as well, even if his gaze lingered across the room. The dark wood paneling of the walls and the bouquet of flowers flanking either side of the casket. Lilies and chrysanthemums bound together and cascading from the metal tripod they were set upon.

‘ _Your kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’_

A hand slipped into his own, and he glanced sidelong at Alana, her dark hair shrouding her from view, head tipped forward. He gave it an answering squeeze before diverting his attention up once more to consider the attendees. A handful of personal associates- work colleagues, he heard some of them greet themselves as. No family left behind but the young woman settled between two agents. No friends to fill the chairs- support in death more absent than it was in life, a contract that was fulfilled with the final breath.

‘ _Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.’_

His gaze fell on Frederick, seated behind Abigail- the neat coif of his hair dark and polished. _Trespasses, trespasses, trespasses._ It seemed pointed. Appropriate. And the ache that curdled within his chest at the reminder that the culmination of his legacy would be leveled on such undeserving shoulders was eased, soothed by the promise of what he would receive in turn. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

‘ _And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil; for thine is the Kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.’_

Love was a religion of its own, he supposed. A ritual of sacrifice and offering; of worship and prayer. And weren’t all the wars of the world fought in the name of religion? Waged on hallowed ground and in hallowed name, blood spilled onto hallowed earth and in honor of a god who had long since abandoned his creation; the antics of Adam and Cain’s sin having long lost their luster.

The prodigal son was a myth; no one returned home repentant after toiling in the temptation and decadence of earth. What use then was there to abstain from all the sinful delights? From the temptation and the evil and power and glory one could fashion on their own instead of basking in the one of another.

“Amen,” the pastor said, a closure to the prayer- heads rising upward as they parroted it back.

‘ _Amen.’_

~x~

“You have got to be kidding me,” Alana hissed as they passed through the doors of the funeral home, heeled feet clipping against the wooden planks of the porch. Hannibal glanced in the direction of her narrowed glare, eyes settling on the sight of bright red curls fluttering around a slim face- pale skin and tapered chin. Alana strode forward, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she approached Freddie Lounds. “This is a private event, no reporters.”

Freddie smirked, her eyes sliding down to the pavement beneath her feet before rising up once more. “You can’t ban me from a public sidewalk,” she remarked. Her hands held a camera, manicured fingers curling around the oversize lens of the device. “Besides, I’m here to offer my services.”

Alana scoffed, eyes rolling as she stepped down the stairs of the porch and moved toward the sidewalk. “No one wants your services, Freddie.”

Freddie glanced over Alana’s shoulder. “Abigail might,” she said coyly, raising a brow as Abigail came to stand beside Hannibal, lips pinched. Her eyes were red, inflamed with the memory of her tears and she pushed her hair back behind her ear- uncertainly glancing at Hannibal who considered Freddie curiously. “Abigail Hobbs returns home and suddenly Minnesota has another dead girl. I’m sure you’re familiar with the narrative being spread after Cassie Boyle’s murder.”

Abigail shrunk beside him, slinking closer as if his imposing form might be enough to shield her from the gossip and rumors that were quick to make their way on the tongues of the community. The articles sparse on details but heavy in speculation. That Abigail developed a taste for the meat and death her father sustained her on, that she had become starved and carnivorous.

Freddie took a step forward, brushing past Alana and trying to catch Abigail’s gaze even as she hid it behind Hannibal’s shoulder. “I can help you tell your story. Give you the platform you need to clear your name. If you’ll just let me interv-”

“This isn’t very appropriate, Miss Lounds. We have a funeral we need to get to,” Miriam interrupted, stepping between Abigail and Freddie. Her tone was prim, diplomatic.

She offered a nonplussed smile, a hand pulling away from the camera to reach into the pocket of her coat, producing a business card from within. “Then I’ll just leave Abigail my card,” she said, pinching the small cardstock between her fingers and extending it out. When no one made a move to reach for it, she twirled it once and added, “I don’t have too long. I was stopping by on my way to interview Nicholas Boyle. He has a lot of thoughts about his sister’s murder, and he was more than happy to let me give him a platform. He wants justice.” She paused, tilting her head so her curls slid down an arch. “Don’t you want justice, Abigail?”

She shifted beside Hannibal, offering him a tentative glance as if requesting his assistance. A direction he might send her in.

He rolled his shoulders in a small shrug. “You don’t have to reach out to her even if you accept the card,” he reasoned, curious to see if the temptation of the contact information in her hand would prove to be too much. If the need to be heard would overwhelm her desire to disappear into the world and she hesitated before stepping forward. The wooden steps groaned with her weight and she came to a stop beside Miriam, leaning forward to accept the offered card.

Freddie’s pink lips twisted into a smile. “I knew you were a smart girl.” Her hand pulled back, joining the other to curl once more around the camera. “Give me a call and we’ll arrange to get your story out. Let the world know you’re more than what they think you are,” she said. She turned on her heel, nodding firmly in Alana’s direction with a smug grin before departing.

“You don’t have to talk to her,” Alana said, reaching out to wrap an arm around Abigail’s shoulders as she guided her to the parking lot, the rest of them following behind her. “She’s a tabloid writer and she has no interest in helping you, just the sales revenue she can get from your interview.”

Frederick hummed, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s something to be said about taking hold of the narrative.”

Abigail slowed, glancing at him with narrowed eyes. “You think I should do it then?”

He shrugged, mouth tilting up in an uneven grin. “I think it’s something to consider. People do love to hear all the sordid details. America has a fascination with serial killers and one could hardly fault Freddie or anyone else for giving the people what they want. And making a few bucks in the process doesn’t hurt,” he answered.

Alana’s glare was withering, any veil of professionalism slipping to the side at his words. “Maybe Abigail doesn’t want to be exploited.”

“Maybe Abigail is an adult who can make that decision herself,” Frederick countered. Alana scowled, though said nothing else, the ride to the cemetery passed in terse, stilted silence.

The funeral itself was, once more, a small affair. Louise Hobbs was interred in a plot beside her husband- _“It seems unfair that she’s trapped with him for all eternity now, but it was prearranged and I don’t have any money to change it,” Abigail said, leaning forward to whisper the sardonic words to Hannibal. “Maybe I should call Freddie. Make a few bucks.”_

Her sullen mood pervaded, seeped into the very atmosphere, and shrouded them in the form of the rain that fell from the gray clouds. Thunder a distant rumble and the hard pattering of rain as it pelted on the road was deafening. Her cheeks pink and feverish from the tears that were indistinguishable from the drops of rain slipping down her pale skin.

They left the cemetery soon after, Hannibal accompanying Miriam and Frederick as they escorted Abigail back to her home. They would be leaving in the morning, and the night would be spent packing up what belongings she wanted to bring with her. A home she would not be returning to, though she didn’t seem perturbed by the notion. A home so filled with blood and death it would have a taste for it now.

Absorbing it the way funeral homes absorbed grief. Sustaining itself on tragedy.

Homes were sentient things, and this one had been poisoned.

“Why don’t you take these boxes and get what you want from your room, and I’ll order us some pizzas?” Miriam said, passing along some boxes.

Abigail blinked at them, reaching out after several seconds. “Don’t you need anything? For like...evidence?”

“CSU has already gotten all the evidence we need,” Miriam answered, gesturing to some of the evidence boxes still lingering in the corners of the room. “You can take whatever you want from your room. And whatever photos you’d like as well.”

“Can’t forget those happy family photos,” Abigail remarked dryly, turning away and departing down the hall to her room.

It was, by all accounts, a dull evening. There was little amusement found in the crowd that gathered infrequently outside the home, rubberneckers slowing in their walk and pointing a finger to the covered windows. Freddie was correct in that matter; the community was quick to find blame in the remaining Hobbs. Her appearance in the town a harbinger of death; yet another innocent girl murdered violently in her wake and she was the common thread among such kills. A fortune grim that brought death and misery on her heels.

‘ _Has too much of her father in her,’_ he imagined they would say to each other as they passed, brows furrowed in disdain.

He sat in the kitchen with Frederick and Miriam, the smell of pizza- laden with grease- thick in the air, the cardboard box set on the table. “Are you sure you don’t want any?” Miriam asked, lowering the lid as she finished grabbing her second slice.

“No, thank you. I have some food in my motel room,” he explained, adding, “I’m very particular about what I put into my body.”

Miriam huffed out a laugh, pulling a string of cheese off her slice. “You don’t ever just cheat and have a little pizza?”

“I enjoy cooking,” he said simply. "It wouldn't be a cheat but a disservice to myself and my hobby."

“He’s very good at it, as well,” Frederick added. “It’s always a privilege to be invited to his house for one of his renowned dinner parties.”

Hannibal grinned. He supposed he would be having a dinner party soon, now that the sounder was underway. A celebratory dinner party, honoring Jack for having finally caught the Ripper and to reconcile the wounds that would be passed between them in the coming weeks in his hunt for the man. A party for new beginnings and he might even have the opportunity to invite Will, as much a celebration for him and his freedom after such scrutiny that his presence wouldn’t raise eyebrows. No unpleasant questions for why exactly Hannibal and Will still maintained a relationship now that their professional one had come to an end so many years ago.

“I’ll have to invite you, Miss Lass, the next time I host one,” he mused, leaning across the table. “I would love to have you for dinner.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said, smiling as she covered her mouth with her hand, obscuring the food she was carefully chewing. She swallowed before adding, “though, I don’t think I’ll have much free time if Jack has anything to say about it. Cassie Boyle’s murder put him over the edge. He’s already sent out an email to the whole BSU that overtime is mandatory.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Well, then we will have to have dinner. I’d hate to think that you’re settling for takeout while working such long hours. Your body and mind cannot function without proper nourishment. It’s the basic foundation of our needs.”

Her smile slipped, her eyes glancing sidelong as she sighed. “Speaking of which, I should see if Abigail changed her mind about not being hungry. I know she’s upset but she should eat-” Miriam set her plate down, rising from her chair only to halt when Hannibal extended out a hand.

“Nonsense, finish eating. I’ll check on Abigail,” he said, pushing the chair back as he rose to a stand. She gave him an appreciative smile that he returned, leaving the kitchen for the bedroom down the hall. It was empty, boxes left open and partially filled and his eyes swept across the room before retreating, bounding down the stairs for the family room on the lower level.

He came to a stop on the third step, blinking at the scene before him. Blood pooling on the floor, staining Abigail’s jeans as she leaned in it, kneeling over the prone form spread beneath her. Her hands pressed down on the still chest, trembling and bloodstained, a litany of the word _no_ falling from her lips, uttered into the gutted cavern of Nicholas Boyle’s torso as if it might undo what she had done. As if the sheer force of will of her regret might turn back time, erase the sin and the crimes and the blood settling into the lines of her palm.

“Abigail,” he called, startling her from her useless prayers to a god that had abandoned her to her temptation. That would not deliver her from evil. 

Her lips quivered, eyes widened in fear. “H-he...he broke in,” she said, raising a shaking finger to point to the door held ajar, the handle wretched open. “It...it was self-defense. Right?”

Her cheeks were pale, flushed of all color and her tears cut a thick stream down the pale flesh. He strode closer, pulse thrumming and vibrant and delighted by the clean cut, no hesitation to the line that pulled him apart from his belly button to his sternum.

The way one would gut a deer.

“Abigail, you’ve gutted him,” he said, his tone dismayed as he lowered himself, eyes softening to meet her own. “This isn’t self-defense.”

Panic flicked through her blue eyes, head shaking. “No, no, no, no. I didn’t...I didn’t mean to. It...it was an accident-”

He reached out, a warm hand settling on her cheek, thumb wiping away her tears. “I know, I believe you,” he said, watching as the words settled, etched into her mind and she exhaled slowly, relief writ on her face. “But Jack won’t. Abigail, how many deaths will you be tied to before your innocence is too difficult to defend?”

Her panic began anew at the words, body shuddering with the force of her sobs and he closed the distance between them, folding her in his arms in a tight embrace. He hushed her softly, running a hand down her dark locks in a placating gesture. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you. We’ll take care of this together.”

She held her hands out, mindful not to stain his suit with the blood thick on her hands even as she leaned her head forward, sobbing into his shoulder. The word _please_ replacing the _no,_ a new prayer offer to a new god that wouldn't lead her away from temptation but just might deliver her from evil. Salvation found in the worship she would offer him.

What a delightful set of circumstances.

His gaze slanted, falling on Nicholas’s face- frozen in one of anguish, fear. Lips parted in a silent scream, blood trickling out from the corner of his mouth. Eyes wide and unseeing, listless and dim. He certainly didn’t look like he was sleeping.

And Abigail was certainly her father’s daughter.

~x~

Will glanced up from his laptop, the cursor of the word document blinking on the screen. He tugged his headphones free from his ear, glancing at the door to his dorm with narrowed eyes. Several seconds slipped past before the sound he heard over the din of his music came once more, a knock rapping against the door.

He stood, pushing the chair back and crossing the room. He twisted the doorknob, pulling it open to find an unfamiliar face.

“Will Graham?” the woman said, brow quirking up as she glanced at him from underneath the brim of her hat- a logo for some company stitched onto the front of it.

“Ugh...yeah.”

“These are for you,” she said, extending her arms out, hands gripping the handles of fabric shopping totes, emblazoned with the name a nearby grocery store he knew of though never shopped at. It was well-known for its exorbitant costs, offering only organic and gourmet foods- nothing he could afford on his meager budget.

He furrowed his brow. “I didn’t order anything,” he said.

“I have the receipt here with the order and payment information, but it definitely had your name and dorm room for delivery,” she said, sliding the handle of one bag to join the other to free up a hand, reaching into a bag and producing a folded slip of paper. She passed it along to Will with a shrug, muttering lowly, “I mean, it was already paid for anyway, and I work for a third-party delivery service so-”

“Oh,” Will said, understanding her intent as he reached for the bags. “I ugh...I don’t have anything for a tip,” he mumbled, shifting his weight side-to-side awkwardly.

She waved a hand dismissively in the air, already retreating down the hallway. “Paid for that too. Enjoy.”

She turned from him before he could respond, and he turned back to the room, closing the door behind him. He dropped the bags on his bed, unfolding the slip of paper. The name it bore was an unfamiliar one, a meaningless moniker that Hannibal would use so that the transaction wouldn’t be linked to him or his personal account but a cursory glance at the item list was all the confirmation he needed.

He set the paper aside, peering through the bags and examining the contents. There were tins of gourmet nuts- some plain, some boasting tempting flavors like habanero mango, honey and bourbon- slim boxes of artisan crackers, assorted jars of honey and jams, packages of jerky- chili lime, sweet teriyaki- and he grinned at the thought of Hannibal selecting flavors while placing the order online before beginning his day. Perhaps selecting a few that made his own lips curl in distaste but believing that Will might enjoy it.

He had told Hannibal he preferred to graze throughout the day, having no real time or desire to eat a full meal and he could practically hear Hannibal’s admonishing voice to at least eat something with more nutritional value than cardboard. It filled him with warmth, the self-satisfied contentedness that came with being looked after by another; the little acts of love he was beginning to see now that the filter of his denial had been snatched away.

He set the bags aside, grabbing a package of cookies as he did so. A narrow package, shortbread cookies with raspberry jam and a thin layer of ganache and he tore the cardboard open with one hand, reaching for the phone with the other. Hannibal hated when he ate on the phone, but he could think of no better way to express his appreciation for the gift than with a muffled hello, grinning at the thought of irritating the man. The foil seal crinkled noisily as he tore into it, the soft ringing of the phone curling around his ear.

He bit into a cookie, chewing slowly as he waited for Hannibal to pick up. The phone rang once, twice, thrice…

On the sixth ring, it clipped, the automated messaging system beginning to play and he frowned, pulling the phone away and ending the call. It wasn’t so late in the evening, Hannibal might even have still been busy with the work he was doing in Minnesota. He had mentioned in their last call- a quick chat when he stepped away for lunch- that the pressure was mounting on Jack with the murder of Cassie Boyle and he imagined that sort of thing might trickle down. That those working beneath him were subject to the same amount of pressure.

He tried not to think too closely on other reasons that might keep him from answering; that _Alana_ was traveling with him, staying in the same motel. The curdle of jealousy in his chest was an ugly, vicious thing, but knowing how unbecoming it was did little to dissuade its ache.

It wasn’t fair of him to be envious; he had no right to claim Hannibal, especially if he was still so uncertain to what end his feelings went for him. He didn’t possess Hannibal any more than he possessed him and he was more than entitled to have his trysts, his dalliances with others that weren’t Will. Even if the thought soured in his stomach, made the cookie taste like bitter ash.

He didn’t simply dislike the idea of Hannibal with another; he _loathed_ it. Something like betrayal contorting within him that the man would make such proclamations of love only to feed his hunger with someone else. A betrayal that was entirely unfounded- they were _friends_ , not lovers or partners. Even if they were toeing the line, delving into something _more_ it wasn’t enough to justify such possessiveness.

He was being greedy and selfish, wanting the man to abstain from others so that he might be content in the knowledge he was waiting for him.

But waiting for what, exactly?

Waiting implied that there was something sitting on the horizon, a promise, or a commitment that Will wasn’t certain he could make. And it wasn’t fair of him to expect Hannibal to wait for something that might never come.

Yet, that was precisely what he wanted.

He mulled the thought over in his mind, reaching into the package for another cookie. They were rich and sweet but not so saccharine that it was cloying, the bitterness of the chocolate a contrast to the tart jam.

He thought of Hannibal’s declaration of love; the reverence and benediction in his words.

There would be no turning back, he knew, should he accept it. He wasn’t a fool; he knew better than to think that it would be _healthy_ love. That there would be boundaries and separation of self.

Hannibal's love would be consuming, devouring him whole. There would be no separation, their entities fully melding together until they were properly incoherently attached, no seams to be found. They would feed off the other, enabling the assorted monsters that shifted within their skin, and what if he changed his mind? What if he saw the world and future spread out before him and decided he didn’t want Hannibal to be a part of it?

Would Hannibal let him leave?

He didn’t imagine he would.

Though, he didn’t really imagine he would want him too either. An obsession that ran deep between them, burrowed in his marrow. They already belonged to each other in all ways except for this one. The one that was seeming less a path for Will to consider and more one he would reach in due time.

An inevitability.

Not so much a matter of _if_ but _when_ he would confess to being in love.

Maybe he already was.

Hannibal had described it as falling. A careening descent that was simultaneously eternal and lasting within the stretch of seconds. Sudden and unending all at once but Will didn’t feel as if he was falling. There was no plummet, no hitch of his stomach as it lodged in his throat. He didn’t feel unsteady, the loss of control that would accompany a fall into a cavernous depth.

In fact, being with Hannibal was the closest he felt to stability. Mooring himself to the man in a way that held him aloft, kept him from drowning in the tumultuous waves that would normally drag him under. He felt steady and sure, more certain of himself and who he was than when in the company of others or even in the privacy of his own, often unfamiliar thoughts. Thoughts that didn’t belong to him but pressed upon his brain all the same.

Simply, he didn’t know himself as well as he did when he was with him.

Maybe it was different for everyone. Maybe love had a way of dismantling the preconceived notions of someone, stabilizing where the ground was weak and eroding where it was strong. It would make sense then that Hannibal- a man who exuded control and restraint- would be disoriented by the whims and throes of something so delicate yet forceful. That it would toss him from his perch and jumble his senses; that it would bear the same shade of an uncontrollable descent into a collision he could not see or predict.

Yet the same thing would do the opposite to Will, an anchor to his usual buoying that set him adrift. A certain and grounding form that he could clutch onto and balance himself upon. Finding control in the very thing that stripped Hannibal of it.

It wasn’t an entirely disquieting notion, his jaw slowing as he chewed the cookie thoughtfully. The thought that he might love Hannibal- in the same way he loved him, wholly and hungrily, an act of consumption- shifted within him, slotting into place in his mind with unsettling ease. He had no reference for it, having never experienced love himself or seen it in any other form besides familial- his father had never bothered with dating once his mother passed and his grandfather lingered only in the periphery of his memories- gone before he was old enough for his love with his grandmaw to impress upon him.

Hannibal’s love was the only romantic love he had known and perhaps he was once more mirroring another, siphoning something that wasn’t his but making it his all the same. Though that didn’t fit quite well either- even if he was simply reflecting Hannibal’s love for him, it wouldn’t negate everything else about him he was certain of. That he enjoyed Hannibal’s company and found comfort in it, that he- perversely, considering what the man was and what he was capable of- trusted him in a way he didn’t trust another. That the thought of living a life without Hannibal was impossible to entertain, craving the violence and sophistication of him; craving the security and thrill of being known.

Wasn’t that why he felt so compelled to finally confront the obstacles in his course? So that, should the time come that he decided what to do with Hannibal’s love he would be ready? Prepared to give himself over entirely, so that he could receive him in turn? An exchange of the other- not quite an emptiness from handing himself over, but simply refilling it with something else. Pieces fitted together.

And now that some of the fear and anxiety had been replaced with tentative consideration and he could admit, at least to himself, that he found pleasure the rich timber of Hannibal’s voice, it was becoming a more concise concept, the edges sharpened and the image clear. That the thrill that ran up and down his spine at the thought of Hannibal's hands smoothing over his skin was only part apprehension- part exhilaration. A fear he was conquering in increments, slowly peeling the layers of scar tissue back to reveal something new and soft within.

Some prospects of touch- the more intimate sort, the ones that would carve him out and feel too much like ownership though not his own- still seemed too much, inspiring his heartbeat to quicken and beat unevenly within his chest. But he imagined it would only be a matter of time before the thought of that became easier to swallow; where he might find wanton joy in the thrill of such passion.

And there was a personal satisfaction to be found in the undoing; taking responsibility for the slow dishevelment of Hannibal’s poised and ever-perfect facade with unrestrained glee. There was a depraved joy found in the destruction of one so formidable, the knowledge that Will might unravel his control. That he was capable of reducing him to gasps and sighs and shuddering breaths with nothing more than an innocent touch.

What could he do with something less than innocent? How thoroughly might he pull Hannibal apart if it was his goal to do so, his hand guided by intention rather than intrigue?

He had been so overwhelmed by the thought that Hannibal might want to hurt or humiliate him in bed he never considered the opposite; that he might instead revel in Will taking control- an extension of his plummet, a falling that would never cease.

The thought made Will pause, setting the box of cookies aside and wiping the crumbs from his shirt. His mouth was thick with saliva, pulse thrumming at the obscene and sordid things filling his mind. There was an undeniable power to sex; a dynamic that normally inspired doubt and anxiety but now there was...a certain appeal to it. To the thought that he might be the one to wield the power, active rather than passive.

He shifted where he sat, his growing erection making the strain of his jeans uncomfortable. He hadn’t tried touching himself since the other evening where he finally found a long sought after release and the relief of it had lulled him to sleep, the phone still pressed against his ears. The battery had died at some point in the evening, and he was almost thankful for the small mercy of it, embarrassed that he had not only jerked off to Hannibal’s voice but had fallen asleep to it as well.

It seemed almost greedy to attempt it once more, testing the limit that had in the past proven to not be in his favor. Yet, his roommate would still be in class for another hour and a half and images painted in his mind were growing firmer in their intensity, vivid and demanding.

He rolled off the bed, wincing in discomfort as he reached into the drawers of his wardrobe. The sweater he borrowed from Hannibal was still there, neatly folded- a bright azure blue against the more muted colors of his own clothing. He pulled it from the drawer, raising it up to his nose and inhaling softly. It smelled faintly of his cologne, like the sheets Will slept in beside him when he wore the sweater to bed.

It felt strange- _weird_ , even- but his self-doubt was smoothed by the realization that Hannibal would probably be flattered the idea. Perhaps even become aroused that Will sought fragments of him out, purposefully tethering to him as he touched himself once more. He slipped the sweater on before he could overthink it, slipping back into his bed and slowly unbuckling his belt.

The metallic sound it made seemed lewd in the quiet of the room, jingling noisily as he slowly pushed his pants and boxers down. His erection sprung free, firm and pink, and he spat into his palm before reaching for it, sighing at his own touch on the sensitive skin. He began slowly at first, easing into the pleasure as if teasing himself. A tantalizing, barely-there caress of his fingers as he traced the seam of his cock, the frenulum, and the arch of the appendage. He kept one hand pressed to his chest, his heart a steady beat beneath his sternum, and the sweater and tee-shirt he wore beneath it were rucked up, the fabric bunched under his chin so he could smell the subtle aroma.

His eyes were squeezed shut, crafting a vision of black sheets and royal blue bedding. Invited into a bed he hitherto snuck into, expensive fabrics lush and rich on his bare flesh. He thought of himself on top, sitting astride Hannibal’s lap instead of under him- where he might choke in panic, trapped by the oppressive form above him. Legs spread and knees digging into the mattress on either side of the older man's hips and he would lower himself, lean forward and run his hands across his flesh once more.

Touching him with more fervor than the other night, letting the heels of his palm drag heavily across the flesh, fingers tugging on the chest hair that would drag a shuddering gasp from his throat. His touch would be more dominating than exploratory, laying a claim over the burnished cold skin, trembling in delight that he was his. That Hannibal had as much as vowed his entirety to Will.

Even Matthew had said it, recognized that Hannibal was wound so fiercely around Will’s finger he could be made a fool. Demolished by his own love.

Will didn’t want to demolish him, though.

Not that way, at least.

His destruction would be sweet, the sort of destruction anyone would welcome.

He would ask Hannibal to stay still, to sit pliant and watchful as Will touched him to his heart’s content. Exploring him further, delving into the pieces still kept hidden between them- taking the time to familiarize himself with the lean muscle of his legs. Coy and demure touches between his thighs, letting his anxiety rise and then slide from him until that too seemed less frightening. Until the whimpers and shaky breaths from the man below him spiked his arousal so that it swallowed any hesitation. The pleasure outweighing all else in its path.

And Hannibal would tolerate it all, subject himself to the teasing of Will perusing his body at his own leisure because Will had asked him to. It would be torture, one he would allow. One that would inspire a sheen of sweat to glisten on his tanned skin, his head to roll back against the pillows and dishevel his hair; messy it in a way that would seem strange to anyone who knew the man but not to Will who knew him in such a preserved, sacred way. One where he was simultaneously his most frightening yet also his softest, a monster to everyone but to his beloved.

A monster who would whimper with want, tears pinching from his eyes when Will could finally- charitably- cease his teasing and touch him ardently. Touching him with purpose and his cock pulsed in his hand at the thought that he might even make Hannibal _beg_. That the fearsome Chesapeake Ripper would plea for Will- for the opportunity to touch him in turn, to chase more of the pleasure that Will was in control of.

It was an intoxicating thought, one that pushed him over, tumbling down the precipice; his orgasm just as shuddering- just as violent- as the last. The muscles in his groin contracted before rippling with the spasms, come coating his hand as he continued to pump himself, working himself through the aftershocks of release. His heavy pants and low groans ricocheted off the walls of the room- his dorm, he was disappointed to note, not the expansive and dark bedroom he had lost himself to in his fantasies. Laying on a mattress that was too thin and uncomfortable, so different from the plush and luxurious one of Hannibal’s bed.

A comfort he longed for, settling into the bed as if it were his own.

Maybe in a way it already was.

Or, at least, it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter-  
> Will: Why didn't you answer my call? Were you with Alana?  
> Hannibal: No, I was hiding a body and assaulting people to make it look like a break-in  
> Will: Phew, that's it? Thank god  
> Also, looking over the outline for this, it looks like the chapters are just going to hold steady at a pretty long length for most, if not the rest of, this story. Sorry.
> 
> NEXT UP: Some more phone sex, but this time Will gets a little more (a lot more)...into it. Also, Jack has a break in the Hobbs murder.


	18. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: NSFW content. Might be a little spoiler-y, but there’s some dirty talk and some Dom!Will/Sub!Hannibal overtones. Its only in this chapter, and isnt present in any further aspects of their physical relationship though.
> 
> Relevant tags: masturbation, phone sex

The air was humid, heavy with the lingering trace of rain. The earth sodden, blades of grass and mud creating a thick layer of filth on Hannibal’s shoes and he frowned at the sight of it, dragging his soles across the metal step leading into the ambulance. The cut on his arm was shallow, the piercing sting of the torn skin turned into a more muted throb with the compression of the bandage. Nothing so severe to require stitches or anything further than the rudimentary care offered by the surrounding EMTs, the distant clamor of the surrounding responders a background of sound.

Abigail didn’t want to cut him; she had been resistant to the idea. A fresh peel of tears glistening in her eyes and mottling her flesh, voice thick with mucus as she refused to so much as curl her fingers around the blade he handed her. But she relented, nerves steeling when he lowered his voice to a firm command and she glanced away; eyes skewed shut and arm swinging down like an unsteady pendulum.

By no means perfect, but enough that the sight of blood staining his sleeve and his hand trembling with the wound would ease any doubt that might flourish when the police flooded the scene sometime later, called by a frantic Frederick when Hannibal rose up the steps- covered in blood and stumbling over Miriam's prone body. When she had descended to investigate the delay and Hannibal had acted on impulse.

“I just spoke with the chief of police. Boyle doesn’t have a car- a few too many DUI’s suspended his license so he can’t have gotten too far on foot after he ran out. They issued a BOLO and will keep us updated on what happens. How are you feeling?” Alana asked, pulling him from his thoughts at her sudden emergence. Her heels clicked noisily over the asphalt as she came to stand beside him, placing a warm hand over his knee in comfort. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital? You didn't lose consciousness like Miriam but a head injury is still a head injury.”

He smiled at her, overlaying her hand with his own and patting it once, using the gesture to obscure the slip of his leg out from under the touch. “I’m fine, really. The cut was superficial and it was just a bump. I think he was too startled to do any real damage,” he explained, raising his injured arm up minutely for her to observe the thick winding of gauze beneath the pushed up and bloodstained sleeve of his button-down. “How is Miss Lass?”

“Pretty confused. She just left for the hospital now- Jack wanted her to get an MRI, just in case, but the EMT checking her out didn’t seem too concerned aside from the short-term memory loss. She'll spend an overnight under observation,” she said. She sighed, sitting beside Hannibal in the open mouth of the vehicle. Her shoes- raised to join his own on the step- were stained with mud as well, blades of grass clinging to the exposed skin of her feet from the low plunge of the heel.

He nodded, exhaling slowly in relief- seemingly for Miriam’s well-being, though in a way, he supposed it still was. It wasn’t the way he preferred to work; the ill-thought reliance of quick head injuries to buy him time and obscure his tracks. There was no real control- the brain an unpredictable thing, bearing little consistency. But it was a relief that at least for this evening there would be no more bodies; that Miriam’s spotty memory upon stumbling into the lower level had shrouded her mind. That she believed the man who attacked her to be Nicholas Boyle on his way to make a hasty retreat and not Hannibal.

That she hadn’t seen the towels saturated in blood from where Abigail frantically sopped up the pool on the wooden floors once the body was taken care of.

“And our good Uncle Jack? Have you spoken with him yet?” he asked, glancing at her curiously.

She frowned, averting her gaze as she hesitated on the answer. “He’s not happy. Used the words _media circus_ and something about Lounds being a _ring leader_.” She paused, scoffing softly as she gave a slight shake of her head, dark hair tousling with the motion. “I already told him though not to expect to talk with anyone once we get back to Virginia tomorrow. Everyone should probably take the day to rest. Even you, Hannibal.” She said the last phrase with a smile, eyes gleaming playfully.

He returned the smile, tipping his head in thanks. “Well, on behalf of myself and everyone else, I thank you for that. Especially Abigail.”

Her smile dropped at the mention of the young woman, lips tugging into a deep frown. “She’s really upset. Hasn’t stopped shaking since I got here.”Alana rose a hand, gesturing to the ambulance before them, the empty cavern of the driver’s seat greeting them. “They’re bringing her to the hospital for a quick psych eval, but they won’t intake her. She’ll be coming back with us still. Really it’s just so that she can see a doctor for long enough to get something to help her relax.”

He nodded, recalling the fierce tremor of her slight form beneath his touch- the panic that had yet to abate even as Hannibal crafted the story. Even as the officers thanked her for her statement with kind, pitying eyes. “You should go with her. Let her know she isn’t alone.”

“What about you? I don’t want you to be alone,” she said, brow furrowing.

“I will be fine. She needs you now more than I do. I’m just going to get some rest in my motel room before our flight. I could certainly use it,” he said, his grin teasing, eyes crinkling with the motion.

“Well...if you’re sure, I would like to be with her,” Alana confessed, glancing once more at the ambulance before looking to him with wide eyes.

He nodded. “I’m sure.”

She gave a quick, delicate hug- mindful of his injured arm- before sliding down from where she sat, disappearing around the corner of the ambulance. He sat there for some time, watching as the technicians clambered back into their seat and drove away. The chaos coming to a tapered end, marked in the gradual departure of the ambulances and police cars. The neighbors that had milled out from their homes, watching the scene with poorly disguised smugness- schadenfreude was the word that came to mind- had departed, leaving together with hunched shoulders and unkind whispers spoken too loud. Too inconsiderately.

How easy it was for communities to come together in their shared vitriol- an ease that never accompanied the call for support.

He rose from where he sat, a few parting words shared between the chief before striding toward his rental car. It was no small mercy that Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s garage was filled with tarp and plastic wrap that would not be missed, protecting the upholstery from the blood that would slowly seep from the corpse in his trunk, draining from the eviscerated torso.

The overhead light blinked on as he settled in the seat, and he took the moment to pull the phone from his pocket, frowning at the missed call icon. His gaze flicked to the clock on the dashboard, frowning at the number that blinked back at him- nearing midnight. The call had been made hours ago- when he was carefully assisting Abigail in rolling Boyle’s body for easy transfer to his car. She had been frantic, chewing her lip to keep her sobs sealed within and had needed to wash the soles of her sneakers in the sink of the bathroom when she carelessly stepped in the blood she spilled.

He doubted Will was still awake, and he dismissed the notification with a flick of his thumb, using the disposable phone to pull up a map for local parks- hiking trails rife with the sort of game Abigail’s father would have hunted when he wasn't hunting young girls resembling his daughter.

He settled on one that was a two-hour drive from the Hobbs residence- far enough away from the prying eyes of the police searching for the man turning stiff and cold with the first touch of death behind him. It would have been nice to spend the drive speaking to Will, even if he would only fall asleep once more, receiving only answering snores and soft exhalations as he spoke.

The occasional muffled utterances when his dreams bled into reality.

He enjoyed Will’s conversations, but there was something endearing to his silence as well; to the comfort he found in slumber.

He would call him back when he returned to Baltimore.

When he was less distracted and could give him the attention he deserved.

~x~

“ _I’m sorry I missed your call. I was otherwise indisposed.”_

Will crooked a brow, running his hand through his hair as he paced circles in the small space of his dorm. “Doing what?” he asked, flinching at the demand in the tone. He had opened his mouth, an apology readied on his tongue when Hannibal interrupted.

“ _I was helping Abigail hide a body.”_

“You were _what?”_ Will asked, his tone sharp. He came to an abrupt halt in his pacing at the excuse, stumbling over his feet and extending an arm out for balance, clutching the air for purchase.

“ _I was helping Abigail hide a body,”_ he repeated, and Will scowled.

“You know _damn_ well that wasn’t what I meant,” he muttered, finding his footing once more and continuing to pace. “What happened?”

“ _As far as anyone else is concerned, Nicholas Boyle is on the run after assaulting an FBI agent, myself, and threatening to kill Abigail for the death of his sister,”_ he answered, his tone nonplussed. Will inhaled, a whistling sound as his nostrils flared, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Hannibal was trying his patience, toying with him with the playful omissions and his irritation flared at the thought of his thin lips skewed into a grin, bourbon eyes bright and bemused.

“Abigail killed him?” he asked after a moment, thankful when Hannibal’s response was curt and to the point.

“ _She did.”_

His lungs fell, the expulsion of air through his mouth a sputtering sound. “Works out well for us, doesn’t it? She probably trusts you pretty well now,” he mumbled, his pacing coming to a stop in front of his desk, fingers tapping on the back of his chair. Nervous energy, stomach coiling with something he couldn’t entirely name. It bore the same shade of dread, though it had been some time since he felt such a thing in Hannibal’s presence.

Perhaps it was an empathetic twist of such, his guts churning in discomfort on behalf of Abigail.

The answering chuckle only twisted the knot further, a tightening on both ends. _“I imagine so, yes. She believes I didn’t want her unfairly prosecuted for an act of self-defense that Jack would see as further evidence of maliciousness. I’m sure she was too grateful to properly question my willingness to help.”_

Will said nothing, jaw clenching at the words. It was easy to forget the grand and Machiavellian manipulations the man was capable of; his presence a parasite to the unwitting host. Feeding on insecurities and the innate desire for connectedness, for companionship that Hannibal might prey upon. Weaponizing it with a gleeful grin and delighting in the knowledge that each surreptitious and devastating blow would be all the more painful when made by a friend.

His knuckles turned white with his tightening grip on the chair, fluttering doubt like wings brushed within his throat. He was as certain as he was sure he would ever be that Hannibal wasn’t tormenting him, dangling him in a long and drawn-out game for his crooked amusement.

It wasn’t enough for his liking, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to blacken the image from his mind. Tried to push the unfamiliar presence of Abigail from his head.

There was no space in there for her thoughts; barely enough for his own. She had no reason to trust Hannibal and it left a shadow to cloud his mind but he was not her.

His swallow was rough, and he blinked the doubt away. “It wasn’t anything too important. I was just calling to thank you. For the gift,” he said, letting his smile stretch across his face- dimples like half-moons cutting into his cheeks. The boyish feature was thankfully obscured by the brush of stubble on his jaw. He didn’t like to be reminded of how young he was; how juvenile he was compared to Hannibal, the distance in years between them all the more damning.

But the reminder of Hannibal’s gift lifted his spirits, evaporating the dark cloud that had momentarily risen over him and he laughed as Hannibal remarked, _“_ _It was as much a gift for me as it was you. If I had to hear you so much as say the word_ Lunchables _one more time I’m afraid I’d have no choice but to sever our friendship.”_

He hesitated a moment, lips pinched tight before he could no longer resist the temptation. “...Lunchables.”

“ _Will,”_ he warned.

His grin only widened, a brow quirked. “No, _I’m_ not lunch-able.”

Hannibal scoffed, though his tone was light as he said, _“You’re quite the comedian today, aren’t you?”_

“In a good mood, I guess. Why should you get the monopoly on cannibal puns anyway?” he said. It wasn’t a lie. His usual tension and tightly wound nerves loosening from his muscles, leaving behind a lightness that felt foreign. It felt not entirely unlike the cathartic release of a kill but steadier, pulled by something more substantial than adrenaline. Something that it could feed on, an endless well to satiate his hunger.

A feeling that he was quickly becoming addicted to, craving it voraciously. A feeling he was beginning to associate with _Hannibal_ and the words left his mouth before he could stop them- part teasing and part sincere, his tone lowered to a husk that felt unfamiliar but strangely exhilarating on his tongue. “Besides, I know that’s not the way you want to eat me.”

There was a pause, Hannibal’s voice soft yet firm as if unsure of where Will intended the conversation to go as he said, _“Will-”_

“What? As I said, I’m not mad. In fact, I’ve been...curious about it,” he admitted, trying not to mumble the words. Trying to infuse them with as much confidence as he could despite the uncertainty he felt in such uncharted territory.

He realized with a deepening blush that he was _flirting._

Hannibal hummed softly. _“Is that so?”_ It was spoken in a purr, a vibrato of sound that trembled down each knot of his spine.

Will licked his lips, forcing the words out as if squeezing them from his diaphragm. “Yeah. I thought about you. The other day.”

“ _In what way?”_ he asked, coyly. Amused, perhaps, in the unexpected direction Will was taking the direction in. Eagerly allowing himself to be dragged along.

“While I was touching myself,” he admitted, cheeks warm with the confession.

“ _I was talking to you, I imagine it would be difficult not to-”_

“No, not then,” he interrupted, scowling. He sighed, smoothing out his features as he amended, “last night when I tried to call you. When you didn’t answer.”

“ _I’m sorry to have missed it then,”_ he said, words rich and deepened in unmistakable arousal. Sweet and thick like molasses and the sound of the timber rolled through Will, pooling in his groin and he was already hard, the metal teeth of his zipper digging painfully into his straining erection.

He pulled away from the desk, sitting on his bed and using his free hand to palm himself over his jeans. “I can do it again if you want...on the phone,” he said, lip nervously rolling between his teeth.

“ _Do you want to?”_

“Yes,” Will answered, the one-word firm and decisive. He unfastened his jeans, the thin fabric of his boxers clothing his erection even as it rose, less restrained now. His fingers stilled before he could push the jeans down his thighs though, chest twisted with a sudden thought. “The um...the last time we did this...did you touch yourself?”

“ _Of course not,”_ came the terse reply, spoken through gritted teeth. Spiked in insult that Will would even ask.

He ignored the obvious affront in his tone, asking, “did you want to?”

Hannibal didn’t answer immediately, considering what to say before finally settling on the truth. _“Yes.”_

His own arousal slunk through him at the admission, a heady heat in his veins. He pinched the phone between his ears, keeping one palm curled over the clothed tip of his cock as the other shifted beneath his shirt, fingers pinching at the already pebbled nipples beneath. He inhaled a sharp breath, releasing it in a shaky exhale. “You can, this time.”

“ _Is that an allowance or a request?”_ Hannibal asked. The question made Will's hand falter, slide down the planes of his stomach.

“Does it matter?” he asked, face warm with the color that blossomed up from his collar. Wasn’t it obvious what he wanted? That he longed to hear the strangled and hitched sounds of pleasure from Hannibal’s throat? That his own heart was thundering in his chest at the thought of Hannibal touching himself as Will did the same, comforted by the distance between them to act as a veil? A separation despite the closening gap between them that eased the thought of intimacy in his mind.

Was he really going to make him _say_ it?

“ _Yes it does,”_ he said, the tone clipped and professional. As if holding Will at arm’s length until given the verbal cue to do otherwise. He scowled, eyes rolling at the question even if he understood why. He considered saying nothing at all out of spite; working himself and trying to tempt Hannibal with the litany of moans and sighs he would breathe into the receiver of the phone until the same sounds curled around his ear.

It wouldn’t work though; Hannibal was nothing if not restrained and he would continue to speak to him in the clinical tone of voice until Will asked otherwise.

He sighed, shimmying his boxers and jeans down his hips finally. “Where are you? Your home or your office?” he asked, trying to craft the visual as he leaned back against the pillow and stretched out on his bed, eyes closing.

“ _My office. I couldn’t reschedule all my patients but I have a gap between them at the moment.”_

He envisioned the office; sharp lines and clean edges. Muted, neutral colors disrupted by the bracing pop of red- staining the walls and filtered through the light that came through the curtains. The sleek leather armchairs and the antique, tufted chaise. Metal and glass tables and wooden desk- a disorienting mix of decades, moments in time collapsed in on each other.

He envisioned Hannibal leaning back in the chair behind his desk, a hand wrapped around his cock and sighs and moans falling from his lips. An image that was just as jarring as the uncertain décor in the room; lewd sounds and lewd acts from the man still dressed prim and proper. The front of his slacks open to allow himself the room to work his hand but otherwise still donning the waistcoat and jacket- no doubt a hideous and garish combination of fabrics.

His mouth felt dry at the thought, once more fascinated by the idea that he might ruin the tight restraint of control. That he had the power to make Hannibal crumble, so unlike the facade of the costume of the man he so often wore.

“It’s a request,” he ground out.

“ _Very well.”_ There was the soft, sighing sound of fabric shifting, a leather chair groaning with movement and something fluttered in Will’s chest- rising from his lower belly and into his throat.

“Have you...thought of me before? Of...fucking me when you’ve touched yourself?” He wasn’t entirely sure what answer he was hoping for, drawn somewhere between the thrill of being desired and the fear of it. The expectation that came along with it.

Several seconds passed in quiet, broken only by the sound of Will’s hand as it glided slowly over his cock, eyes closed to try and focus on the sensation. _“Sometimes.”_

The single word made Will frown, even if his arousal struck through him, fluid and molten at the knowledge of Hannibal chasing pleasure at the thought of him. Yet, there was a twinge, the now familiar pang of _jealousy_ that there might be another person who occupied his thoughts. Someone else alluring- perhaps more to his regular tastes than whatever fit of fancy lead to him wanting Will. A deviation from the devotion he claimed to have.

The thoughts come to a sharp and swift end when Hannibal added, _“Other times, I think about_ you _fucking me.”_

His hips stuttered at the uncharacteristically vulgar word on Hannibal’s tongue, hand stilling in surprise. “Oh...I’ve...I’ve never done that,” he said- a bit foolishly, he realized. It wasn’t as if his experience- or even his personal wants and pleasures- had any baring on Hannibal’s fantasies. They were his, after all; private thoughts he turned to for comfort and release and the Will that existed within them was not necessarily the one that existed outside of them. Fashioning a Will of his own to do as he pleased and the thought brought it the slight pull of nausea.

But there was something tantalizing about the thought of such a role reversal. Something he hadn’t considered but now sat in his mind, blossoming and unfurling with curiosity. He supposed he wasn’t surprised that Hannibal would enjoy that; there was always a perverse sort of delight- a glint to his eyes- on the few occasions that Will made himself dominant, inserted himself into a role that felt both right and ill-fitting all at once. And once more there was a power to it, a vulnerability required that he wondered if Hannibal indulged in because it was Will and it was _safe_ to be vulnerable to him.

There was comfort in the notion, as well as a spark of heat, fingers tightening around his cock and a thready groan pulled from his lips. His cheeks warmed in embarrassment, but he forced his jaw to relax- to not to clamp down on the noises.

It was different this time, he knew. That this time it was more along the lines of _phone sex_ and there was something odd and compelling about it all at once. A step closer to the intimacy they were toeing around, but a safe one. A controlled one that could come to an end with the press of a button.

“Tell me one of them. What you think about, I mean,” he asked, bringing his hand up to his mouth and spitting into the palm. It eased the glide as he returning to stroking himself, tightening his hold around his shaft and offering a low hiss at the touch.

It was a cruel request, an invasion of something he had no right to. A fantasy Hannibal thought of that was comforting because it was his own and because it might never be realized, the closest he might ever come to having Will and it was unfair of Will to take that from him.

But before he could reconsider, take the words back in a form of apology, Hannibal said, _“I like to imagine you_ _r passion in bed mirrors_ _the way you kill.”_ His words were strained, accent thick and heavy, pulled from a roughened throat.

Will didn’t quite stop touching himself, but he did slow, thumb smoothing over the slit at the crown of his cock. He furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”

“ _It means...it would be the sweetest, most decadent sort of cruelty. It would be brutal and intimate. Not unkind- but not charitable either. I think you would enjoy pulling me apart as much as you enjoy pulling others apart,”_ he explained, and the words hitched, punctuated by a soft groan that shot like a current from the shell of his ear to his cock, twitching hotly in his hands.

It was one thing to know Hannibal was touching himself, another thing entirely to hear evidence of it.

“You would survive it though,” Will muttered, struggling to keep the words leveled. He set the phone between his head and shoulder once more, neck-straining uncomfortably but unbothered by it as his now free hand slid up his shirt. Fingers brushed delicately over the buds of his nipples, giving them a firm pinch. “That’s the difference.”

“ _I don’t think I would,”_ came the small reply, followed by a sigh. Even his sounds of pleasure sounded elegant, restrained, and it _annoyed_ Will that he still sounded so in control.

“That would make you my victim then,” he ground out, words gritting through his clenched teeth. His hand was a tight fist, alternating between rough tugs and something softer. Something more drawn out and playful. Precome beaded and slipped down the arch of his cock, wetting his touch.

“ _Indeed.”_ There was a pause, a sharp inhale that crackled through the speaker. _“You enjoy ironic punishment, and I think the same would apply here. Sometimes I imagine us here, in my office. Late into the evening so that we can take our time in our discussions- no pressing matters to attend to. It would smell of char and smoke from the fireplace, wood crackling, and of course, the awful scent of that aftershave and cologne combination you still insist on.”_

“Hey-” Will began, eyes narrowed and a retort sat on his tongue, only to swallow it back when Hannibal continued.

“ _When you kiss me, it would be all teeth. Not so much clumsy as simply violent. You would taste of whatever drink we indulged in that evening, though I’ve noticed you have a preference for whiskey. Like malt and honey. And when you kiss me you would push me, press me over the desk because I think you would think it funny to do so,”_ he ground out, arousal rounding the bellies of the vowels, sharpening the tapered lilts of the consonants. The words were strained as if squeezed from his throat and just the husk of the deep voice curling in Will's ear was maddening. Sparks of want coursing through the wires of his veins.

Will moaned, a loud and obscene sound- there was no uncertainty to what it was, no question that Will wasn’t deriving at least some pleasure from the picture being painted. The soles of his feet were planted on the bed, knees raised and he canted his hips up, the grip of his hand not nearly enough.

“ _You would be rough when you finally penetrated me, sliding a finger in halfway in one thrust.”_

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” Will murmured, even if the words came out in a gasp, a sharp exhale at the thought.

“ _You can, though.”_

Will rolled his hips, bucking against his own grip. “Is that an allowance or a request?”

“ _Fair enough,”_ Hannibal said, punctuated by a soft laugh that tapered into a pleasurable sigh. _“It’s a request.”_

“Are you...” Will started, hesitating on the words. He licked his lips, steeling his resolve as he asked, “Are you touching your cock now? Or are you fucking yourself?” He flinched at the words, bold and strange on his tongue.

“ _I’m stroking myself,”_ he confessed, and Will sighed at the thought of the dexterous hands sliding over a firm, swollen cock. Foreskin pulling with each downward drag of his hand. _“Would you like me to do something else?”_

Will blinked, hand stilling as he bucked his hips languidly forward. He was merely asking a question, trying to establish an image within his mind to satiate the absence of one. Something to accompany the soft groans and sighs brushing against his ear. He hadn’t anticipated _direction_.

“Yes,” he said before he could think better of it. “Bend over your desk and fuck yourself, pretending it’s me.” The command sounded foreign to himself; as if he were playing pretend- a petulant child trying to control a monster who heeded to no one.

But any self-doubt was washed away by the spiked gasp that followed, the sound of furniture creaking and fabric shuffling. As strange as it sounded to Will, it must have sounded decadent to Hannibal. A symphony that he reveled in, that swayed and moved him as if the commands and lowered voice were the rich swells of an orchestra. A performance he was eager to attend.

Several seconds passed, and the sound that filtered through the phone was distant, each creak of the desk and flutter of clothing amplified and he realized Hannibal must have put him on speakerphone. He groaned at the thought, the image of the refined and poised man bent over his own desk- chest pressed against his appointment book and smearing ink on his suit. One hand bracing himself on the desk, curled over the edge, and the other slowly working himself open with lube-slicked fingers, plunging into the tight ring of muscles and trying to convince himself the hand was not his own but Will’s.

The assorted pencils and scalpel he kept on his desk would clatter noisily with each thrust, roll from their established order and this was closer to what he wanted. The thought of unraveling the man and disrupting the perfected edges of his design more thrilling a thought that any of the pornographic videos he’d watch online. To bring someone so fearsome, so monstrous to his hands and knees and reduce him to groans and grovel was a heady thought, one that made each thrust of his hips a quick snap.

Perhaps Hannibal was right- he would fuck the way he killed.

It might have been a startling revelation- cause for concern if he hadn’t crossed that bridge and burned it down long ago. But he _enjoyed_ the thought of it. The thought that even in Hannibal’s fantasies where he could reduce Will and form him to whatever pleasurable thing he wanted, he chose instead to make him fierce. Vicious.

“How does it feel?”

“ _Tight,”_ Hannibal said, grinding the words like glass in his mouth. _“It feels good, but not enough. Not as good as you would feel.”_

A whine escaped Will’s lips at the declaration- spoken like a lament- and the hand caressing his chest dragged down against his flesh, nails digging into the skin. “Can you hit your prostate?” he asked, not entirely sure if it was curiosity or kindness that guided him.

“ _Not quite. Not easily, at least. It’s a difficult angle-”_

“Because you’re doing it. It’d be easier if it were me,” he supplied, voice soft. He swallowed thickly, trying to settle into the words that sat on his tongue like an instinct. Even if they felt strange- cumbersome and awkward- to say, he forced himself to ground them out. “I wouldn’t, though. I’d purposefully brush over it. Torment you a little bit.”

Hannibal _groaned_ , a broken and stilted sound not unlike a wounded animal, and Will pulsed in his hand, toes curling into his blanket. “How many fingers have you got in you?” he asked, words sloping in pleasure and the twang of a long-forgotten accent.

“ _Two,”_ Hannibal answered, and Will slid his hand out from under his shirt, examining the plump heel of his palm and the slender fingers.

“My hand is smaller than yours. Two of your fingers are closer to three of mine, I think,” he mused, winding three fingers together and imagining using them to fill Hannibal. To stretch and crook within him, undoing and shattering a man who destroyed so many. “Three of yours is probably pretty similar to my cock though.”

He fell quiet, listening to the rustle distorted through the speaker, the quiet pants that he could barely discern from the stillness. He ground against the heel of his palm, biting his lip at the sound of a sudden grunt. His lips twitched into a grin. “How many fingers have you got in you now?”

Hannibal chuckled, though the sound was strained. Punctuated with the exhalations of his breath as he choked out, “ _three.”_

“Are you still touching your cock, too?”

“ _Yes.”_

“Don’t. I want you to cum on your fingers, pretending it’s me and nothing else.” He thought of Hannibal bent over the desk, cock bobbing underneath the tabletop- red and thick, precome spurting from the tip. Still dressed almost entirely in his suit- a suit he would straighten and disheveled hair he would push back into his usual coif in time to greet his next patient. As if he hadn’t just been pressed against his own furniture, keening wantonly and thrusting against a pleasure that was just short of being _right_. A tease of something he wanted desperately but was too considerate to ask for.

Will swallowed, his chest full and tight, something hot coiling at the base of his spine. He was close, edging closer to the precipice of something he was getting better about pushing himself over. A full-body pulse and twitch that eased the tension from his limbs and slackened his muscles. “How close are you?”

“ _Very.”_

If not for the hand wrapped around his cock and the furious thrusts of his hips, Will might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. The long and descriptive paragraphs of Hannibal's prose slipping into monosyllabic responses. Clipped, one-word answers coming from the typically loquacious man and before he could stop himself, he said, “I finally found a way to shut you up, huh?”

He had been expecting a response- a teasing remark, perhaps, falling into the ease of their banter. Or even a huffed out laugh, pulled too tightly for words, leaving only utterances and half-sounds to replace his expansive vocabulary. What he didn’t expect was for the low-pitched _whimper_ that blustered against his ear.

It pulled an answering growl from his throat, and the thrusts into the circle of his hand became erratic unsteady snaps. If Hannibal had been silenced by the throes of pleasure, Will had been emboldened, spurred into speech by the effect his words had on the man. “I wouldn’t touch your cock, either. I’d get close to it- reach around and touch your inner thigh, rub across your hipbones, and the stretch of skin between them. But never your cock. Just get close enough to it that you can’t help but to whine for more, to beg. Until I don’t even have to do anything, because you’re so desperate you’re fucking yourself on my cock like a bitch in heat.”

“ _Will,”_ Hannibal called out before dissolving into a torrent of incomprehensible groans and sighs.

The sound of his name was roughened and deep, spoken in the unmistakable husk of want; lust thick and sloping and his name never sounded better than it did when spoken in such a way. The slight elongation, the drop from the consonant to the vowel, and it was _delicious_. It made his name sound entirely different, a separate evocation from any other and he never wanted to hear it said in any other way now. He would be greedy and every other call of his name would be too insubstantial now that he knew how it sounded when spoken with such desire.

“Fuck,” Will hissed, the tempting and igniting sounds of Hannibal barreling into his orgasm pushing him into his own, reaching the crescendo of pleasure as his cock pulsed and twitched in his grip. Like the snap of a tenuous chord in his chest, it was wrung from him, hips canting and rising and back arching off the mattress, heels digging into the bed to find some sense of purchase even as he tumbled over an edge.

Come spurted from his slit, hot as it slid down his fist and made the last few tugs of his cock slippery.

He released hold of himself when the touch began too much, tremors of overstimulation making him ache. His breath was ragged, coming out in wretched pants and perhaps it wasn’t just the way he killed or fucked that was violent, but the way he came too. It surely felt violent, as if the force of his orgasm had ruptured his capillaries, splintered his bones as it was ripped from his chest.

Minutes slipped between them, counted in the slowing down of their breaths, the soft sighs shared in the silence. Contented and satiated sighs, a hunger abated though a small voice buried within the folds of Will’s brain told him not for long. That the hunger would return and would be more voracious than ever.

He was less frightened by the idea than he thought he would be. Intrigue and thrill fluttering at the promise of it.

Yet, beneath the satisfying, post-orgasm haze came the trickle of self-doubt. The confidence that had possessed him waning, and he cringed with the memory of the words that came from his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, shuffling to sit up in bed.

Hannibal chuckled softly, the sound like a vibration in his ear. _“I can’t ever imagine what for.”_ It was a sincere sentiment, words blurred in his own contented bliss.

Will shifted with discomfort, wincing at the feel of drying come on his skin. He reached over to the box of tissues set beside his bed, carefully wiping himself down. “I just...feel bad, I guess. I keep telling you I don’t know what I want but making you do these things-”

“ _You’re not making me do anything, Will,”_ he refuted, voice firm.

“I know, I just mean...like it wasn’t fair to tell you what to do or ask you to tell me your fantasies.” He shrugged, tossing the tissues aside as he shucked his boxers back on, suddenly feeling too vulnerable and exposed.

“ _And yet, if I’m not mistaken, I suspect you liked hearing about it,”_ he mused, and Will said nothing. It was the truth, after all. He enjoyed knowing the depth of Hannibal’s want- knowing that he wanted Will in a way that didn’t make him feel small or powerless. As if he were simply a masturbatory aid or some grasp for control.

Will swallowed, unsure of what to say until curiosity prickled at his senses. “You said you think that I would fuck like I kill,” he began, twisting a hand in his shirt and watching the fabric crease- pull taut over his fingers. “What about you?”

Maybe it was selfish- unfair of him. But he wasn’t certain he would like the fantasy so much if the roles were reversed. Anxiety and dread winding in his belly at the thought of it, suddenly fearful that a man capable of such cruelty would extend that cruelty in bed. It was a hypocritical fear, he knew, as Hannibal had been right to think Will wouldn’t be unkind but wouldn’t be charitable either; mouth watering at the thought of torturing Hannibal in such an intimate and unique way.

Hannibal was silent as he considered the words, the sound of rustling fabric filling Will’s ears as he righted his clothes. He was surprised to find he disliked the thought- of Hannibal slipping into his disguise so soon after such debauchery. As if Will hadn’t unraveled him enough. _“Those fantasies are markedly different. I would describe your passion in a single word as ‘vicious’. It is not unwelcome if that wasn’t clear,”_ he began, and Will could imagine the smile curving his lips at the insinuation. _“To describe my passion, on the other hand, in a word would be, for you-”_

He paused, as if perusing his extensive vocabulary for the right word. The one, singular word that would contain the multitudes of his want and desires. The one that would encapsulate the method of his destruction, describe the way he would pull Will apart the way Will had done to him. But not _viciously._

The answer came several seconds later, soft and loving even from the distorted strain of a cellphone’s speaker. _“Worshipful.”_

~x~

Jack sighed, dragging a palm down his face. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, poisoning the marrow and making him sluggish and worn. It was only one in the afternoon, yet he was unable to stop his gaze from slanting to the drawer of his desk- a bottle of scotch stowed away. Reserved for celebrating the closing of a case, when the paperwork was filed and the shift came to an end.

There was nothing to celebrate, but the tantalizing burn of the liquor was a tempting one.

He refocused his gaze to the case files strewn across his desk, pages quickly giving way to disarray. There was a Post-It note somewhere- a quick to-do list he jotted down of all the agents and unit chiefs he needed to call. Follow-ups to the string of murders that seemed to boom overnight and the manhunt for one Abel Gideon that was still underway, the fugitive laying low.

A blessing, perhaps, as the last time he escaped he left a trail of bodies in his blood-strewn path.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the doorframe, and he glanced up as Beverly approached, a file in her hands.

“Please tell me that isn’t another case,” he asked, a brow crooked as she stepped forward, a grin twisted on her thin lips.

“No, it’s good news,” she said, and he perked up, straightening his spine. He rose a hand, palm held up and curled his fingers inward in a gesture for her to continue. She approached the desk, flipping the folder open. “We got the list of people who signed up to tour the college the same week as Hobbs and cross-referenced it with our profile. Fourteen names were a match.”

“Fourteen? I thought you said you had _good_ news.”

She pursed her lips, glancing up from the paper. “It _is_ good news, considering what we started with. I was thinking we could divvy the list up for interviews. But I also brought over their files if there’s anyone that catches your eye,” she explained, placing the folder on the desk and sliding it forward. Jack pulled it close, eyes scanning down the list of names with a shuddering sigh. Too many to wade through. “We have preliminary profiles on all of them after we pared the list down by people who met the perimeters we were looking for and were in the area during the actual time of the murder. Zeller and-”

Jack rose a hand, silencing her as he came upon a name- a familiar one that pulled on a vague memory he couldn’t fully discern. “You got a preliminary one for Will Graham?” he asked, glancing up at her.

“Ugh,” she said, taking hold of the file once more and flipping through the clipped pages. “Somewhere in here. Why? Does that name mean something to you?”

He rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe? I’ve heard it before, I just can’t remember where.”

She hummed, eyes sparkling as she made a soft proclamation, fingers pulling several pages from the pile and holding them out before her. “Let’s see...Will Graham. Toured the campus’s pre-veterinarian facilities with his father. Just toured though, he ended up staying in his home state and going to a college out in Lynchburg. He was flagged in our search because he meets the physical requirements but also because...” she trailed off, reading ahead. Her brows rose, lips parting as she muttered, “yikes.”

“Yikes? What does _yikes_ mean, Doctor Katz?” Jack prompted, canting forward on his seat and glancing over at the paper.

“The charges ended up getting dropped but he was part of an assault case after he attacked a therapist of his when he was a kid and...” she hesitated, glancing out the corner of her eye as she added, “...and he was questioned about a murder case several years ago.”

“A murder case? But he wasn’t arrested for it?” he asked, extending a hand out for the file. She settled it in his palm.

“No, the body was found by the groundskeeper of a cemetery, and based on his schedule it was determined the body was dropped off while Graham was in custody so he was ruled out.” She paused, hesitating over the words before finally saying, “the kill was then pinned on the Chesapeake Ripper.”

He glanced up, raising a brow. His voice was a low, commanding boom as he enunciated the one word, the syllables sharpened in demand. “What?”

“Donald Sutcliffe. He was the last kill from the triad of kills four years ago. Displayed in the Baltimore cemetery,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

He grunted, gaze slanting down to stare at the dark mahogany of his desk. The name pulled, tugged at a memory, the recollection of the dinner unfurling before him in slow, lumbering movements. The tension thick and corrosive, Alana’s gaze narrowed and cold as she bore holes at Chilton’s arrogant and twisting grin.

_The thing that worked for Will was the Chesapeake Ripper._

He scoffed, a humorless laugh slipping from between his lips. A telephone call- made only days prior- surfaced to his mind, distorted as if seen through the waves of a crashing ocean, foam frothing on the surface.

Miriam had remarked that Cassie Boyle’s death was modeled after Hobbs, a striking similarity to the Chesapeake Ripper and it seemed so clear now. Amateurish in comparison but the removal of skin and the connective tissues of the muscle had such startling similarities to the Ripper. The corpse draped over the large antlers like a coronation wreath. An homage and he sighed, the words uncharacteristically soft as he said, “I just remembered why his named sounded familiar.”

Beverly glanced at him inquisitively, head tilting to the side.“Why?”

“During dinner. He was a patient of Chilton, Hannibal, and Alana,” he answered, the conversation coming to him with greater force. Slipping within the cracks of his memory. His chair rolled back as he stood from it, clutching Will Graham’s profile close to his chest as he crossed the room to grab his coat.

“Chilton exclusively treats violent adolescents,” Beverly remarked.

“Yeah. He came up when we were discussing psychopaths and the Chesapeake Ripper. Chilton said the Ripper _helped_ him,” he said, once more punctuating it with another stilted laugh.

“You want to look more seriously at him?”

He grunted in response, shrugging into the coat. “Contact the local police in Lynchburg to arrange transport for him. I want him here for questioning.” He glanced down to the file, pages already curling from the tight grip of his hand as he skimmed its contents. “He toured the college with his dad? We should get him in too, see what he remembers from that trip.”

“I can check to see if it's changed since then, but at the time they toured they lived out in Wolf Trap, less than an hour drive away,” she said, following him as he left the office- jaunting to keep up with his long steps.

“Check on it and send me a message to confirm,” he said in thanks, raising a hand and wagging a pointed finger between them. “If I understood correctly, Doctor Lecter was his psychiatrist at the time the Ripper _helped_ him. I’ll see if he’s available to accompany me out to Wolf Trap. Maybe he can answer a few questions about Will in the meantime.”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s gonna roll up like, “What can you tell me about Will Graham?” and Hannibal is going to be like, “Oh, Will? Jerked off to him in that desk over there the other day. Why what’s up?”
> 
> NEXT UP: Hannibal accompanies Jack out to see William; Will gets a visit from the police


	19. Interrogation

Franklyn sat in the chair opposite Hannibal, his hands rubbing down the fabric of his trousers in a nervous gesture. Clammy, he imagined. Though clammy in a way that was disquieting, too damp- the palm too warm and the sweat too cold. Not the sort of dampness that clung ever-present to Will’s flesh- a near feverish heat to his touch, the callouses of his hand softened by the moisture of the sweat.

Franklyn was currently trying the limits of Hannibal’s good graces, an unfamiliar reconsideration of his actions brought on by the simpering words spilling from his lips. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to change his mind about the sounder; to alleviate the presence of the overbearing man- the line blurred between psychiatrist and tentative companion.

In his mind, at least- unconcerned or unaware of Hannibal’s obvious dislike for the idea of crossing such a boundary. Especially with one so…

Uninteresting.

“Do you often worry about being alone?” he prompted, though the answer was a certainty in his mind. Franklyn wore his overbearing heart on his sleeve and he clung to whatever allowances of friendship were given to him with those clammy hand. His therapy sessions as of late were dedicated more to him vying for Hannibal’s attention and discussing his friendship with a man whom he knew didn’t see their relationship so intimately than the introspection needed for such a task. 

Franklyn considered the question a moment before raising a hand and thumping it against his chest. “I worry about hurting. Being alone has a dull ache to it, doesn’t it?” he mused, and it was an alarmingly genuine remark from someone so constructed in borrowed identities- becoming those he admired.

‘ _Imitation something something flattery,’_ Hannibal thought with wry amusement, nodding once in agreement. “It can.”

It was at that moment the phone to his office rang, a trilling sound that cut through the large space, and Franklyn’s eyes shifted to it, lips pulling into a pout.

“My apologies, Franklyn. Would you mind if I took the call?” he asked, already rising from his seat. Franklyn muttered a yes- more in an attempt to please the man than his sincere allowance- the words falling to the wayside as Hannibal answered the phone, his usual greeting sliding from his tongue.

“ _Doctor Lecter,”_ Jack began, the sound distorted and distant- filtered through a speakerphone and the blustering wind as he drove his car. _“I hope this isn’t a bad time, I need your help.”_

“I’m afraid at this moment I’m with a patient, but I’ll be free again in-”

“ _Reschedule,”_ Jack said, and Hannibal stiffened, mouth twitching at the rude command. His ire at the discourtesy was forgotten, however, replaced by something else as he added, _“What can you tell me about Will Graham?”_

He took the opportunity to wander around his desk, pulling open the drawer he stowed the disposable cellphone in. He reached for it, unlocking it with a quick slide of his thumb and finding the singular contact with ease. “Not much without a warrant or his written consent. Confidentiality, you understand. Why?” he asked, typing out a quick message and hitting send.

_Now._

“ _He was touring the campus when Hobbs was killed. And you already know he has a history of violence and was questioned about a murder a few years ago. We’re bringing him in for questioning, and I wanted you to meet me at his house to talk to his dad_ _since I know you have a bit of a rapport with them both,”_ he explained and Hannibal hummed. He held the phone in his hand, staring at the otherwise blank messaging screen. He hadn’t made it explicitly clear that Will should respond, though he hoped he would. An assurance that he was prepared for what was to come.

“I see. It’s been some time, but if you like I can meet you there in an hour,” he answered, ignoring the tapered whine coming from the patient left waiting in his chair. “Should I bring my files in case Will does offer his consent?”

“ _That would be great,”_ Jack said, his goodbye curt as he hung up the phone.

Hannibal set the device down, his expression apologetic as he said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule, Franklyn. As you know I consult with the FBI and an important case I’ve been tasked with has a lead.”

Franklyn frowned, lips skewing. “I’m entitled to my full hour, and it’s only been twenty-three-”

“So then let’s make the next session an even two? Will that work?” he offered, his smile kind even if the thought of spending longer than necessary with the man flayed at his otherwise strong nerves. A distaste for the brewing obsession he would have to find a way to end. The phone vibrated in his palm, and he resisted the desire to glance down at the answering text, his gaze unwavering as he watched Franklyn chew the idea before nodding earnestly.

“Excellent,” he said, pulling his appointment book toward him to make the amendments. His eyes downcast, and he glanced at the phone discretely hidden in his hand, Will’s response stretched across the screen.

“ _Got it.”_

~x~

Jack was waiting for Hannibal at the end of the drive when he arrived at William Graham’s home, arms folded over his chest as he leaned against the side of his car. He pulled up beside him, turning the keys in the ignition and sliding out. He tipped his head in greeting as Jack pushed off to meet him, the two walking side by side in slow steps to the house.

“So, you can’t tell me anything about Will, but what about his father?” Jack began, glancing furtively forward before turning back to Hannibal.

“William wasn’t my patient.”

Jack grunted, taking a moment to reconsider his words before amending, “What’s his general disposition? What can I expect from him?”

Hannibal sighed, pursing his lips in thought. Eventually, he said, “William wasn’t the most reliable man or father, but he loves his son. And he will not be happy about your insinuations.”

“My insinuations?” Jack asked, crooking a brow. They were approaching the porch now, rocks kicked out from under their feet as they passed the uneven drive- unpaved and littered with pebbles. ‘His son has a habit of getting in the crosshairs of murder investigations but his problem will be my insinuations?”

“Yes. He was protective of how others perceived Will when I knew him,” he answered. The steps of the porch croaked beneath their feet, groaning with the weight on the worn boards. He wasn’t being dishonest- offering his true estimation of the man he had known years ago. He considered all the things that had occurred in that time, all the revelations unveiled, and added, “I imagine his protectiveness has only grown since I last spoke with him.”

Jack glanced at him curiously. He pressed the doorbell, the chiming ding of it immediately swallowed by the sound of riotous barking that followed, dogs thudding through the home and toward the front door. “Why is that?” he asked.

Hannibal frowned, sparing him a pointed look. “As you know-”

Jack sighed, a sputtering sound as he waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Right, right. Confidentiality.”

The door opened moments later, the screen pushed out by the massive bodies of seven dogs. Nails clipped on the wooden boards of the porch, muffled barks growled out through throats as they considered the two men standing before them with keen interest. Hannibal smiled, lowering a hand so that the larger dogs could sniff, wet noses wriggling against his palm with each inhalation before their interest waned and they scurried off into the yard- smaller ones at their heel when his shoes proved even less interesting to sniff.

Jack muttered something incoherent, stumbling back to make room for the parade of canines, watching them part with a curious look.

“Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal glanced back, eyes finding the narrowed gaze of William Graham as he stood in the threshold, a hand raised and gripping the door frame as he leaned forward. Hazel eyes shifted between the two men, brow raised curiously. There was grease on his fingers- smeared under his nails- and the shirt he wore was stained with blotches of the fluid from where he carelessly wiped away the grime on the fabric.

“Hello, Mister Graham. This is Agent Jack Crawford,” Hannibal said, flourishing a hand in Jack’s direction in greeting.

His brow furrowed, nostrils flared. “Agent?”

“Yes sir,” Jack answered, a hand sliding under his lapel to produce his credentials only to come to a stilted stop when William snarled, the sound followed by a heaving sigh.

“The FBI,” he said, bitterness sharp in the words. He pulled his hand away, folding his arms across his chest as his expression hardened, lips pursed so tightly they turned white.

Jack offered Hannibal a quick glance before refocusing on William, lowering his voice to something he would generously consider congenial as he said, “we were hoping you might be able to come down with us and-”

“Warrant?” William demanded, his tone harsh.

Jack blinked, startled by the terse interruption. “I’m sorry?”

“You got a warrant? Of arrest, for search. I don’t give a fuck which at this point,” William said, voice growing thin and quiet until he muttered the last phrase, eyes flicking away to watch the dogs running in the distance.

“We’re not here for you, Mister Gra-”

“I know who you’re here for. The last time you came for him you had fuck all and I’m just wondering if it’s the same this time,” he returned, gaze snapping back once more to Jack. He was simmering with rage, red blossoming on the expanse of his cheeks; the fierce hold of paternal protection shifting beneath his flesh and Hannibal glanced once at Jack before taking a step forward.

William startled as if forgetting Hannibal was there, the entirety of his focus trained on the agent threatening his son’s freedom once more. “You’re right, William. We don’t have anything. There is no reason beyond your charity to come answer a few questions in Quantico. But at this moment, local PD have been sent to bring Will in for questioning, and I think he’d like you there. I think you’d like to there as well.”

He sneered, lips pulling back to reveal his teeth as he averted his gaze once more, muttering something crude beneath his breath. “Is this about the missing kid on his campus?” he snapped.

Jack frowned, eyes bulging at the prompt. “The what?” he questioned, the words graveled out from his throat.

Realization struck William, his own eyes widening before he pinched them closed, raising a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose. When it fell back down, there was a smear of grease on the tapered point, fingerprints blotting the cream-colored skin and he sighed. He relented, perhaps in a bid to not make the matter any worse for his son than he already had, and he turned from them, calling out over his shoulder as he descended back into the house. “Just give me a minute, I was in the process of feeding the dogs.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Hannibal called, leaning forward to peer into the home. William glanced at him over his shoulder- already halfway in the kitchen. He gave a quick, jerking nod before turning away and disappearing from sight.

“I’ll only be a moment,” he said to Jack as he stepped inside. He found William standing at the counter beside the stove, the scent of the food bland- suitable for the delicate digestion of the many dogs. He was ladling the mixture into seven bowls- assorted, mismatched dishes.

“Will always insisted on making their food. It’s a lot of work now that he’s not here to help but it feels wrong to not do it for them now. They’re a little spoiled,” he explained, ground turkey falling from the spoon and onto the counter as he missed a bowl, his hands too unsteady. When he spoke next, it was in a hushed voice, barely heard even in the quiet of the home. “What do you know?”

“Will’s name was brought up on a list of preliminary suspects in a case,” he answered, taking the time to examine the home. He had never stepped within it before, and there was a thrill to the thought of it. The walls that had been Will’s home for so much of his life, the environment that had forged him. It was clean enough- neither Will nor his father were messy though William seemed to have a penchant for clutter that Will did not share. The unused kitchen table was littered in bills and other mail, and the fridge was covered in magnets and business cards. There were a few photos, and he sidled closer to examine them- old photos, yellowing with age. A polaroid of an elderly couple, a young child sitting on the woman’s lap, his hair a halo of curls. A school photo, Will’s ever-present scowl making the occasion somber.

A woman he didn’t recognize, with thick dark curls that tumbled down her shoulder and bright blue eyes. Will bore a striking resemblance to his mother, a living ghost of the dead.

He turned away from the fridge, fixing his eyes on the back of William’s head. “As of right now, it’s a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong history working against him.”

William’s elbow stilled, the sound of the spoon scraping the edge of the pot an amputated thing. “As of right now?” he asked, twisting to look at Hannibal with a crooked brow.

“It’s an ongoing investigation, I’m afraid I can’t-”

“Fuck you,” he interrupted, and the crude word gave him pause, lips twitching in irritation.

“I’m sorry if I-”

“No, don’t apologize. I don’t want to hear it,” William said with a sneer. He grabbed two bowls- one in each hand- and lowered them to the floor, straightening up to do the same with the remaining five. “He’s been doing _good._ He’s been better since it...” he hesitated on the words, eyes pinching shut and he rubbed at his temple with a sigh. He never finished the thought, presumably the thought that called upon all the failings he’d rather not think on, and said, “So what, every time he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, we can expect the police at the door? Just because of what happened when he was a kid?”

Hannibal said nothing, taking a step back as William walked past him to deposit the cookware in the sink. They clattered noisily- more thrown than settled within the basin, his frustration exerted on his own household belongings. “Can you at least say what? If it’s not the missing kid?”

His gaze was wide as he glanced at Hannibal, almost pleading. Desperate, he imagined, for whatever information he could grasp within his hands; holding the certainty of his son’s innocence the way he once held him in his youth.

“A few years ago, when you and Will were touring colleges. Do you remember a violent murder during a weekend in Indiana?” he asked.

William furrowed his brow, face scrunching in thought. He scratched at his chin, several seconds slipping by as he considered the question, overturning all the mundane memories in his mind.

Hannibal saw the moment he recalled the trip in question, eyes sparkling brightly with recognition and his face pulled, snarling at the thought. “Are you _fucking kidding me?_ ” he said, voice contemptuous. “Yeah, I remember it, and you think Will’s responsible for _that?_ ”

“No, I don’t. I’m on your side here, William. Will’s side,” he said, taking a step toward William, head lowered as he tried to hold his gaze. “I know I only treated him for a short time, but I like to think Will and I came to understand each other very well in that short amount of time. I know who he is, and I trust that. But Jack will need a little convincing. Our job is to convince him.”

William scoffed, turning away from Hannibal’s gaze as he braced himself against the counter. Still, the creases of his face smoothed at the words, tension unspooling from him with each second that past. He looked mostly the same in the years since Hannibal had last seen him- a few more lines then he recalled etched in the corner of his eyes, more gray threading through his short-trimmed hair. But otherwise unchanged.

He pushed off from the counter with a thunderous sigh, striding toward the back door and pulling it open. He leaned out, slipping two fingers in his mouth as he gave a loud whistle. It was not unlike the call to battle, a small army of dogs clamoring into the kitchen at the sound and sliding across the floor in their haste to get to their food.

Hannibal pressed himself against the counter nearest him, smiling at the collection of mutts hungrily lapping at the bowls. Will had talked of his dogs often in therapy, fond of the family he managed to rescue for himself and he glanced at each of them, trying to connect which dog to which of the many names Will had mentioned.

His gaze fell on a small dog, balancing itself on three legs and he had seen that one once. Had watched Will train the dog from a distance, when he had once come to this very home under the veil of the night with an ill-thought plan of killing the two as if it might ease the ache left in Will’s absence. Cutting him out like a festering tumor.

One of his finer moments of restraint, he now considered it.

“Will mentioned his dogs often in our sessions,” he said, extending a hand out and pointing to the one in question. “I don’t recall that one.”

William glanced down, following the point of his finger. “We got her after he stopped seeing you. He found her on the road. She was hit by a car, and her leg was too damaged to save. He spent a lot of time training her to walk.” His eyes were soft, warm with the clear adoration for the kindness his son was capable of. The adoration that extended to him caring for the burden of the many dogs in his leave.

“What’s her name?”

“Bernie,” he answered, and Hannibal’s mouth twitched in a small smile.

“Unusual name for a female.”

“It’s short for Bernaise. Like the sauce,” he added, a grin of his own spreading on his face.

Hannibal huffed out a small laugh. “Bernaise? Was Will hungry when he named her?”

“Maybe,” he said, shoulders rolling in a lazy shrug as he pulled his coat from where it was draped over a chair around the table. He shirked it on before reaching down and curling his fingers around the set of keys and slipping them into his pocket. “He said she reminded him of you and I guess from all those cooking lessons...” he began, the words tapering until he flicked his wrist in a gesture as if to say _you know_. “Bernaise.”

He glanced down at the dog once more, trying to discern if the association was one of Will’s many thinly-veiled insults; a barb offered for Will’s private amusement more than for the sting of the insult. The dog was lithe, small compared to the others and she sat primly beside the bowl- dainty bites compared to the others which ate with a voracious need.

He was still unsure of whether he should take offense as he leaned forward, lowering a hand to pet the dog when William spoke.

“Careful,” he warned, grimacing as he glanced at Hannibal’s hand- still lowered toward her- and shook his head. “She likes Will but I’ve already had to get three stitches.” He rose a hand, wriggling his thumb to show a small, silver scar that ran alongside the base of it. “She has a taste for human flesh,” he joked, having to raise his voice to a shout as he left the kitchen, heading toward the front porch where Jack was still waiting for them.

Hannibal followed, grinning widely.

~x~

Hannibal stood in front of the glass- the large window that encompassed the majority of the wall, dividing the room into two. A room he could see within but those inside could not see him; nothing to be found but their own mirrored reflections. William sat on one side of the table, slouching forward in his chair and his features pulled into a weary expression. Miriam and Jack were opposite him, several files spread before them for quick reference.

“What can you tell us about Will?” Miriam asked, her voice small and tinny through the speaker.

William sighed, raising a hand only to drag it down his face. “What would you like to know?”

Jack glanced at Miriam before asking with a slow shrug, “I know Will has a long history of mental illness. Why don’t you start by telling us what he was like as a kid?”

His lips twitched, a nearly imperceptible gesture.“When?”

The answering question caught Jack off guard, his eyes narrowing in thought as his lips parted. He was silent for a moment, as if trying to discern a riddle he couldn’t quite grasp before asking, “I don’t follow.”

William shifted, the metal chair creaking noisily with his weight as he straightened his spine, leaning forward. “My son changed drastically around the age of eight. Before then he was...quiet and shy but happy enough. After that he was depressed and angry all the time,” he explained, the words somber. His mouth pulled into a frown and his hazel eyes averted, found solace in the nothingness of the metal table set between them.

“What changed?” Miriam asked, tilting her head to the side. The bruise blossoming across her forehead where Hannibal had struck her days earlier was still vivid, mottled blues and purples that she tried and failed to hide behind the curtain of her blonde hair.

He hesitated to answer, the muscles of his jaw twitching with the strain of the words lodged in his throat. His hands rubbed down his jean-clad thigh, a nervous expulsion of energy and when he finally spoke, his voice was thick, strangled on something that he could not clear away. “He started seeing Donald Sutcliffe regularly for medical care.”

Jack stiffened at that, shoulders rolling back as he rose his chin. His brows were knitted, dark eyes calculating with the thoughts twisting in his mind, thousand of pieces he was tentatively trying to connect. “Donald Sutcliffe was killed by the Chesapeake Ripper.”

It did him no favors when William grinned at that, a quirking and insincere gesture that twisted into a grimace. “Yes, he was.”

Silence fell between them, a heavy and fraught funeral shroud. Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, a rhythmic beat to accompany the churning of his thoughts. “Donald Sutcliffe’s wife later came forward with a collection of child pornography she found while cleaning out his home office,” he said after several minutes passed, insinuation sloping in the words.

William winced before giving a firm nod. “I know. It was in the news.”

It was rather charitable to call the _TattleCrime_ article news, but Hannibal supposed he had more reason than most to trust the validity of the usually sensationalized site. The news was meant to be kept quiet, preferring to honor the reputation of the dead than the innocence of those the dead might have harmed but Freddie Lounds had her ways. Her sources she coyly refused to name while praising them for their service.

“Tabloids. Not real news,” Jack corrected, a play at Devil’s advocate that only bristled William’s nerves, his head snapping forward in a sharp motion to glare heatedly at the agent.

“Easy for me to believe that one,” he spat, his tone acerbic and condemning.

Miriam leaned across the table, eyes softened as she met William's gaze. The doleful look of pity and she was quiet as she asked, “did he abuse your son?”

A hand rose, fingers curling around his mouth as William gave a short, jerking nod.

“No one ever came forward with claims against him,” she said.

William sighed, the hand obscuring his mouth falling to scratch his chin. “He was in therapy for a long time, but he never said anything about it until after he was dead. He was embarrassed.”

She nodded, her decorum solemn, though Jack seemed less swayed, averting his gaze to the table for a moment before rising it once more and asking, “Your son has a...penchant for manipulation. Are you so certain he was being honest?”

William scoffed, leaning forward in his seat so the legs groaned. His lips pulled back into a snarl, and his voice was belligerent and venomous as he said, “he wouldn’t lie about that! He was just embarrassed and afraid and thought nobody would believe him.” He punctuated the statement with a pointed look, an extended finger jabbing at the air as if it were a blade he might toss at the man. His lips pursed, skin flushed and painted in the vivid colors of rage. He inhaled, eyes skewing tightly closed. He opened them on the exhale, his voice lower and more restrained as he added, “and like I said he...changed after he started seeing him. Things that I noticed but didn’t...notice enough I guess.”

His lips bulged, clamping down on a bitter laugh or a sob- Hannibal was unsure which- before twisting into a grimacing smile. “Just enough to keep bringing him to the doctor.”

Jack had the good grace to look thoroughly chastised, his gaze turning to the mirrored pane of glass- unable to see Hannibal but knowing he stood there. He had warned him, after all- as much as he could without crossing the boundaries of confidentiality.

“What exactly was he in therapy for?” Jack asked, turning his attention back to William.

“It started as depression. He tried to kill himself when he was eleven. Eventually, he confessed that he had violent thoughts,” he answered, arms folding over his chest once more. Defensive and combative even though the drag of his eyes tempered his anger, exhaustion permeating his presence.

“About others?” Miriam clarified, a brow raised.

“About Sutcliffe. And who can blame him?”

Jack tipped his head once, as if in understanding. “Still, it must have looked pretty bad when Sutcliffe was killed then.”

“The Ripper killed him,” William was quick to say, eyes hardening at the implication.

“So Sutcliffe was killed. Did Will’s violent thoughts die with him?” Jack prompted.

The sound pulled from William’s throat was a blustering, thunderous one. More of an annoyed shout than it was a sigh and the chair screeched as he hastily stood, turning his back on the two agents as he paced toward the dark wall of the interrogation room. “His therapist- the one after Doctor Lecter- said that his violent thoughts weren’t from a desire to hurt others but a misplaced manifestation of his anger. Intrusive thoughts stemming from his anxiety,” he said, and the words hitched, trembled with his restraint. He turned around, arms spreading out and flopping to his side. “Once...once we _knew_ what was wrong, the treatment plan and the medication...it all changed. And it _worked._ He’s a good kid. He always has been. He was just hurting.”

“And he wanted others to hurt too,” Miriam said, though it was not unkind. Said in understanding instead of condemnation and William tipped his head back, eyes closing as he raised his gaze to the ceiling.

“He wanted _Sutcliffe_ to hurt. Not others. Not indiscriminately.”

“He got what he wanted,” Jack murmured, though the taunt may as well have been a gunshot in the cramped room, William’s head snapping forward and eyes narrowing. He opened his mouth, a retort readied on his tongue, but he closed it when Jack asked, “what do you remember about your trip to Indiana?”

He blinked at the sudden shift in the questioning, stammering several times before muttering about it being so long ago. He started several sentences, only to stop himself mid-breath with a correction and a noncommittal shrug. It had been so long ago now, an innocuous trip too mundane to be preserved in his memory.

His recollection was sparse, and Hannibal was quick to turn at the sound of a door creaking open, his interest in the interrogation waning.

He was disappointed to find not Will coming through the door with an escort as he had hoped- enough time passed that he would be arriving any minute- but Alana, Frederick following close on her heels.

He nodded, lips tipping into a smile as he greeted them.

“Beverly called us, said Jack wanted to speak with us about the Hobbs case?” Alana began, arms folding over her chest. “She said there may be a break in the case.”

He rose a hand, pointing a finger to the windowed wall he had practically pressed himself against only moments earlier. “Jack is in the middle of an interview.”

Frederick stepped forward, craning his head in the direction of the gesture. His brow knitted, features drawn before recognition flooded him and a large, crooked grin split across his face, eyes gleaming. “Oh, well if it isn’t our favorite juvenile delinquent's daddy.” He chuckled bemusedly to himself, hands coming to frame his face, palms outward as if in surrender when Alana offered him a scolding look. “I guess that’s what Jack wanted to talk to us about. We’re just missing the boy in question.”

The statement was all it took for Alana’s eyes to widen in understanding, spinning swiftly on her heel to look at Hannibal. “Where’s Will?”

“They’re bringing him in. He should be here soon.”

She shook her head in disbelief, scoffing softly. “Jack can’t really think Will has anything to do with this.”

It was amusing, really, how distorted her perception of Will was. A fierce protectiveness that blinded her to the cruelty he was capable of. To the possibility of such cruelty and Hannibal nearly smiled at the thought. At the illusion Will had so masterfully constructed for himself without even knowing. _A penchant for manipulation indeed._ “Evidently, he was touring the same campus during Hobbs’s murder.”

Whatever Alana had been prepared to say was silenced by the harsh and barking laugh that Frederick covered with a performative flourish of his hand. “Did I call that or what?”

“It’s a mistake,” she refuted.

“Oh please, Doctor Bloom, you’ve had Will dressed up in moral dignity pants from day one,” Frederick said, not bothering to hide the blatant roll of his eyes as he slipped his hands into his pockets, lazily strolling across the room toward her. “Always unwilling to see the monster lurking within him.”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe you were the one unwilling to see him, Doctor Chilton,” she said, the words cold and clinical and Hannibal glanced back and forth between them with concealed glee.

“I saw him clearly-” Frederick began in defense, only for Alana to interrupt, her hiss sibilant and sharp in the small distance between them.

“ _You saw what Sutcliffe told you to see. You didn’t take the time to form your own opinions.”_

It was a cruel and decisive blow, her tone cutting and uncharacteristically cynical and Hannibal rose a brow in interest at that. He had long since learned that Alana would not fall for the whims of his meddling, a staunch moral code, and general goodness she wouldn’t stray from though he supposed even that had its limits. That even someone as warm and kind as Alana might be pushed from the edge with the right provocation.

What a delightful thing it was to witness, the protrusion of something sharp in someone otherwise soft.

Frederick was less thrilled, his mouth falling open and brow creasing. “Are you saying I’m to blame for _that?”_

She didn’t answer immediately, painted lips pinched tightly closed perhaps to act as a prison to the truth she wanted to voice. Instead, she lied, words solemn as she glanced once at Hannibal and said, “no more than myself and Hannibal are.”

Frederick spoke then, though whatever self-indulgent defense he offered went unheard by Hannibal, his gaze lifting at the sight of the door pushing open once more. Will filled the frame, escorted by an agent that Hannibal saw from time to time and had committed his name to memory when he proved to be abysmal and discourteous- a name added to his Rolodex with the promise of _later._

Will looked bewildered- _a penchant for manipulation_ \- and his blue eyes were wide as they bounced across the room before settling on Hannibal, only to divert to the wall behind him, a blush coloring his cheeks. The gray sweater he wore was damp, the shoulders dark from the fall of the rain, and his curls were lank, clinging to his forehead in a mix of perspiration and the inclement weather.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said, the greeting bringing a swift end to the argument happening before him as both Alana and Frederick whipped around.

“Will. How are you?” Alana asked, eyes softening at the sight of the young man and her lips pulled into an insincere smile. Pitying, teeming on the edge of condescension and Will scowled, stepping further into the room with a look at the agent whom Hannibal intended to make a meal of one day.

“Not great. Why am I here?”

Before Alana or Frederick could answer- neither of them bearing a sentiment he knew Will would want to hear- he reached a hand out, rapping his knuckles on the glass window. The door to the room opened a moment later, Jack holding it open as William stepped through.

His gaze found his son immediately, and he strode through the crowded room in long, purposeful steps until he wound his arms around Will’s frame, pulling him into a tight embrace. Will hesitated before returning the hug, fingers splaying as he pressed his hands against his father’s back. Something was mumbled between them, spoken in hushed, incoherent whispers before they finally pulled apart and Will turned his gaze to the looming figure of Jack Crawford.

He stood patiently in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and he rose his chin at Will. “Will Graham. I’m Agent Crawford. If you don’t mind, Agent Lass and I would like to talk to you-”

“I can interview with you, too,” Alana offered, tossing a quick smile to Will.

“No, you can’t, Doctor Bloom,” Jack corrected, voice stern as her smile faltered. “Conflict of interests. Now, Will, if you’ll please come on in.” He stepped aside, gesturing with a flourish of his hand to the room- beckoning him forward.

Will shifted his weight awkwardly from side to side, teeth dragging across his bottom lip. After only a second of hesitation, he stepped forward, sparing only a furtive glance in Hannibal’s direction before disappearing into the interrogation room, the door closing with a deafening click.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, Hannibal. It’s always awkward being with your parents-in-law. Dad will come around to you soon.
> 
> Also I'm really happy to finally have William in the story because I love the planned arc for him. Missed my Non-Murder Daddy.
> 
> NEXT UP: Will’s interrogation comes to a bitter end, Freddie Lounds tries to get the scoop on the latest information on the Hobbs case, and Will makes a habit of breaking and entering into Hannibal’s property. (Super excited for this chapter, ngl.)


	20. Circumstantial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Will’s history of abuse is brought up in this chapter with more aggressive language and terminology, and a more direct confrontation (still no explicit description of the act itself). It starts off rather poorly for Will, unfortunately.

**Chapter Nineteen: Circumstantial**

“Do you know why we brought you in, Will?” Miriam asked, clasping her hands and settling them on the table before them. The table was metal, as were the uncomfortable chairs sat around it. The room too small, crowded by the dark walls and the taunt of the window that reflected his own image back to him. His pallor white, eyes wide and confused. He tried not to stare- not to try to find the shadows of the forms on the opposite side.

Will shook his head. “No, no one will tell me.”

“June, two years ago, between the seventeenth and the twentieth, you and your father visited Ball State University to tour their per-veterinarian facility,” Jack began, and he reached for one of the three folders spread before him, glancing up at Will as he added, “On the morning of the nineteenth, Garrett Jacob Hobbs was discovered in an open field like this-” He flipped the folder open, a large hand coming down to spread out the several sheets of photographs. Different angles from his crime, capturing the details of his crude hand. Ivory antlers stained red, soft and half-masticated organs revealed from the open wound.

Glossy ink that shone beneath the glaring, too bright light above them and he averted his gaze at the grotesque sight. Hannibal had told him that avoiding eye contact was a sign of guilt but that was different. Different police without his history and his therapists to consult; averted gazes were a crutch for him, a comfort he had always fallen into, and what if shirking the habit away now was more indicative of his guilt than sinking into it?

He felt observed, dissected beneath a microscope, and rose a hand, rubbing the side of his face that was turned toward the mirror. The audience watching him for the slightest tell and he tried to find the appropriate level of repulsion. Not too heavily wrought to seem false, but certainly not unfazed by the sight of such brutality.

He found it, lips pinching in repugnance, and his nose crinkled. “You think I did _that?”_

Jack held his hands out, leaning back in his chair. “We understand you have a history of violence, and you came up in our preliminary search. We’re just doing our due diligence.” He said nothing further, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny and Will was aware that this was a tactic. An attempt to make him falter, unease ratcheting within him and he sighed, once more trying to find that balance.

A delicate act.

His leg bounced beneath the table, and he continued to let his eyes bounce across the room. Monochromatic and stark, the contrast jarring. Everything touched by the light was too bright, yet the corners were pockets of shadows and he could understand now how this tactic might work. “Can you...can you close that?” he asked, gesturing to the folder.

“Are these photos troubling to you?” Miriam asked though neither of them made a move to stow them away.

“Obviously,” he answered, forcing the petulance from his voice. He needed to be small. Frightened not by the possibility of his imprisonment but by the process; an innocent dragged into a world that he did not belong in. That he was eager to leave, the fading scent of blood and luminol burning his nostrils.

Jack frowned, glancing at the photos. He started sifting through the pictures as if examining them himself though Will was certain he was more than familiar with them by now. Perhaps as familiar with the crime scene as Will himself was. “Someone going to school to be a vet, you’ll have to have a strong stomach. Surgical skills will be a must, too, right? Have you started studying that aspect yet?”

He bristled, frowning at the bait. His gaze skirted around the surgical though imprecise handiwork marring Hobbs’s abdomen. “That's post-grad. Right now it’s mostly...biology and behaviorism.” He cleared his throat, gesturing to the pictures. “And it’s not the same thing. So could you please-”

“Where were you the night of the nineteenth?” Miriam asked, and once more, the pictures were left on the metal tabletop.

“It was a long time ago...um...” he said, squinting his eyes as if in thought. As if he hadn’t committed his own alibi to memory. “Um, I think there was an event on campus. I went to most of them. Mixers, they called them.”

Jack nodded. He reached for a set of papers stowed beneath the folders, pulling them into his lap and reading through them. Performative, of course. Jack would have taken the time to commit the documents to memory. “There was. In fact, you signed into one of them for the nineteenth.”

“Oh...so yeah,” he said, raising a hand and letting it drop to the table with a dull thud.

“It ended at ten. Where did you go after that?”

He allowed himself several seconds to think. “Probably to the hotel room with my dad.”

“And you were there the whole night?”

“Yes.”

“Abigail Hobbs didn’t report her father missing at the time, though in a recent interview she confessed to having realized his absence upon returning to her motel room from the same event. She thought he was out hunting his next victim, so she obviously wouldn’t call the police,” Jack began, scratching at his chin. “However, the autopsy put his time of death between the hours of four and six in the morning. That’s a lot of time to work in. Maybe even enough time to pick him up and keep him safe until you could return. Even make it back in time before your dad wakes up.”

Will frowned, shaking his head ardently. “I didn’t do it. I was in the hotel the whole time.” He tried to infuse his voice with the right amount the panic, trembling on his tightrope. It was easier, before. The first time he had been interrogated when there were less incriminating circumstances to tie him to the crime but he forced himself to inhale. To remember that there was no physical evidence but there would be for Chilton. That this was all part of the game he and Hannibal had designed themselves and he was in control.

The storm would pass.

Jack continued to study him, his gaze a sear against his skin. Flaying him open and Will frowned, disliking the scrutiny. “I’m sorry, Will, you seem uncomfortable. Would you like me to change the subject?” he asked, though the words were a taunt. Insincere in his consideration of Will’s comfort and he floundered, uncertain of how to answer.

He settled for a frown.

Miriam reached for the folder next- the center one, flipping it open and his breath caught in his throat, lodged at the familiar face peering up at him. An identification photo- blown up to fill the entirety of the eight by ten sheet so that the eyes were large and unavoidable, Noah’s smile an insidious thing. “Do you know who this is, Will?” she asked.

He closed his eyes, though forced them to remain open, nodding three times as he met her gaze. “Yeah. I mean...not personally but...he’s the kid who went missing from my school.”

“Noah Heffernan. Disappeared the night of a party that you attended, correct?”

He hunched, slouching in the chair. His voice was leveled as he said, “I was already talked to about that. The police interviewed everyone who went.”

“Oh, we know. Agent Lass spoke with them, had them transfer their file while we waited for you to come in,” Jack interjected, once more looking through the documents with an air of theatricality that seemed better suited for the likes of Chilton than an agent. “You told them that you left the party early and went to the library before spending the night in your car because your roommate locked you out, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave early?”

“I got into a fight with my girlfriend.”

“About?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Does it matter?” Will answered, scowling at the invasive question. The agent gave him a pointed look and he sighed, swallowing his mortification as he said, “she wanted to have sex. I didn’t. She was mad because we never have, and she wanted to move further so we fought.” He refused to glance up at that- innocence or guilt be damned- and he was thankful when Miriam asked another question.

“And you went to the library?”

“Yes.”

Jack nodded, a pregnant pause filling between than as he hummed, reading the documents at length. “We checked with your school. Your ID wasn’t used to access the library at any point in the night, even though it’s required to enter after eight in the evening on weekends.”

_Shit._

He blinked at the statement, opening his mouth only to close it, lips pursed tightly together. He recalled the evening in question- one that seemed so long ago now, near-forgotten in all that had occurred since- and he frowned at his own stupidity. His impulsive actions and once more he felt _foolish._ A burden that might destabilize the foundation of not only his life but Hannibal’s as well.

Too much time had passed, and he needed to say _something_. Anything was better than sitting in the stilted silence, the quiet strangling him more and more with each second and he said, “maybe I got confused with another night then.”

Jack smirked at that, though he was quick to correct it. To smooth the line of his mouth into something more ambiguous. Less gleeful. “Not a great time to confuse your nights when giving a statement to the police.”

He shrugged. “It was a mistake. It was an...embarrassing night.”

Jack’s eyes gleamed, though he said nothing, tapping Miriam’s elbow and prompting her to say, “Another person the police interviewed was a girl. She was Noah’s date for the evening. Ended up in the hospital. She was fine aside from no memory of the evening on account of the barbiturates in her system.”

Will exhaled slowly, expelling the breath as he furrowed his brow, the words _no evidence_ becoming a mantra in his head, a clutch for balance. “Okay?”

“Do you know what I, as a profiler, see when I look at these two cases, Will?” Jack asked, head lowering as he narrowed his quizzical gaze.

Will hesitated, eyes flicking down to the two open files- spread bare before him. As stripped and raw as the memory of Hobbs’s cut into torso; the dissection flaps of Sutcliffe’s flesh held upon to reveal his ribs and pink, pulsing organs. He shook his head, shrugging noncommittally.

“I see a man who targets young women being brutally punished over here,” he began, raising a hand and settling a finger over the identification photo of Hobbs- his stare neutral. “And I see the same thing over here,” he added, sliding the same finger down to the other file, letting the tip of the digit brush across Noah’s forehead- his own stare glancing at Will accusingly in the photograph. “In profiling, this is what we call victimology. It’s how we build our profiles. And these two, to me, look like the work of a vigilante killer.”

He leaned back, folding his hands before him as he considered Will, letting the discomfort of the silence wrap like a shroud around them. Overbearing, a pressure wrapping around his chest and stifling his breaths. “Do you know what else these two cases have in common, Will?”

He inhaled, closing his eyes. “Me,” he answered, his swallow thick- saliva heavy on his tongue.

“You,” Jack agreed with a nod. “There’s another case that you are the common denominator of too, isn’t there?”

Will’s head jerked up sharply, eyes widening. An anticipatory tremble of dread shuddered through him, and he pulled his shaking hands to his lap, curling them into fists. “Please don’t-”

Jack ignored the pathetic sounding plea, flipping over the third folder with little grace. The manilla cover pulled away, separated to reveal the identification photo that stared at Will like a ghost; a ghoul that struck him to his core. Like the collision of waves from a raging sea crashing against him- seafoam and saltwater dragging him beneath the current of his panic- the ringing in his ears became a pitched, discordant buzz- pressing on his thoughts and muddling them.

Fear had a way of that, clutching at someone so wholly, so completely he felt battered. Little more than an untethered boat lost to the churning waves created in the storm. His stomach twisted, nausea curdling in his belly and he pressed himself as far back into the chair as he could manage, the metal bar running across the back digging into his shoulders.

He was crowded. The room filled with the phantoms made such by his hand but there was no power in that reminder. Not when the face of the man who featured too often in his nightmares sat before him like a taunt.

It had been so long since he’d seen him, yet he remembered him so fiercely, so acutely, it was as if the photo had been plucked straight from his memories.

Memories he’d rather not think about, and he whimpered, eyes squeezing tight as if it might make the monsters disappear- not realizing that they were a threat from within.

Jack allowed only a proprietary few seconds for him to get his anxiety under control before beginning, “Donald Sutcliffe was tortured and killed December twenty-fourth, four years ago.”

“This isn’t fair. I was already questioned about this,” Will whined, the words hitched over his unsteady breaths, shoulders shaking with the subdued quiver of his cries. His cheeks were warm, fevered, and each slip of a tear stung as it fell down the curve of his chin.

“You were. And the death was ultimately pinned on the Chesapeake Ripper but...here’s the thing, Will. Over here-” he tapped a finger against Sutcliffe’s photo, “I see a man who was tortured. Surgical precision. Organ removal. Even his hands were removed. At the time, we profiled that the removal of the hands was in reference to Sutcliffe’s career as a surgeon. Taking away his livelihood by taking away the tools he worked with.”

He paused, glancing at the younger man with an indiscernible expression- not quit sympathy, but sympathy adjacent. “Though, after speaking with your father about your relationship with Sutcliffe, I’m beginning to wonder if it wasn’t something else that inspired that. If the Ripper knew something nobody but you and Sutcliffe knew at the time.”

Will’s lips twitched into a frown, trying not to let the bitterness twist unfairly toward his father. He couldn’t fault him- much as he may want to, the anger simmering within him wanting to be pointed and hurled at whoever stood closest. But his dad was only being honest, was only trying to help and the sight of Miriam’s face, eyes warm with _pity_ was a visceral ache. A twist to the handle of the knife in his chest and he knew that Doctor Bloom was no doubt wearing the same sentiment.

He was well acquainted with the many emotions filtered through to him; had borrowed them and worn them like a second skin often enough.

Nothing was so abhorrent as _pity_.

“Compared to Sutcliffe, Hobbs is...clumsy. The technique isn’t as refined, the UnSub struggled considering they were smaller than Hobbs’s himself. Younger too, based on how juvenile it is. But...it’s all there. Eerie similarities. Organ removal. Surgical cuts. Even down to the theatrical display,” Jack continued, reaching for the photos of Hobbs crime scene- slaughtered and mounted like the deer he hunted so often. Consumed like the girls he hunted.

He rose a hand, flourishing it in a wave across Sutcliffe’s file as he said, “So here I have a certified Chesapeake Ripper kill, and here I have a copy of a Chesapeake Ripper kill.” His hands fell to the table, the sound of the drop resonating between them. “I have...two bodies and one missing person reports. And in the middle of all three of them,” he paused, jabbing an extended finger in Will’s direction, “I have you.”

Will pursed his lips. “I have an alibi for Sutcliffe-”

“We know,” Miriam said, tone measured. The _pity_ was still there, but it hardened. Calcified in the accusation they were toeing around. “You barely have one for Hobbs, though. And you lied about your alibi for Noah.”

He was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “It wasn’t a lie, I got conf-”

Jack continued, unheeded by Will’s proclamation, his voice rising in volume until it swallowed Will’s own, much smaller one whole. “The only thing I can’t quite figure out is what came first? Did the Chesapeake Ripper kill the man you wanted dead for so long and inspire you to act? Maybe Hobbs was your way of honoring him to show your thanks. Or did you inspire the Ripper to act?”

Will startled at that, blinking owlishly. _“What?”_

“Your alibi the night Sutcliffe was murdered was that you were spending the night under the emergency care of Doctor Lecter. Awfully convenient timing that your doctor who works for the FBI would be able to confirm your alibi the night the person you wanted dead was murdered,” Jack leveled.

“What are you implying?” Will asked in a sneer.

Miriam glanced sidelong at Jack before asking, “was it arranged?”

“What?”

“Did you arrange with the Ripper for this specific night and then ensure you would have an ironclad alibi, knowing your history of violence and threats against him would make you suspect?” she clarified, speaking each word with care and precision, enunciating sharply.

His jaw slackened, incoherent utterances falling past his lips as he struggled for something to say. He had expected the interrogation to be more thorough than the one from before- when there was no body to tie him to, nothing but a years-old threat that had been made and never forgotten.

But he hadn’t expected _this._

He wasn’t prepared for them to see through him so quickly, to have seen the image spread bare and how? How had they connected the dots? Was Jack Crawford so obsessed with the Ripper that any association with him drove him to such lengths, to make connections where others would flounder?

Did Hannibal know? Did he know the extent of their understanding or was he just discovering it now, witnessing it in time with Will?

He fought the desire to glance to the mirror as if he could decipher the nebulous silhouette obscured by the illusion. As if he might be able to see Hannibal and clutch for balance to him, pull himself steady as the current tried to drown him.

He resisted though, forcing words to punch through his gut. “No! I didn’t….why do you think I did all this? Just because...I was there? In the general area?” It was a bid for time, an obvious stall as he tried to think of something to say- a way to salvage the interrogation that was spiraling from his grasp.

“Because you have a history of wanting to hurt others- to kill them- in addition to a history of assault. You have a motive, you were there and because you _lied._ Because everywhere you go there seems to be a very specific type of victim left in your wake. Victimology,” Jack said, swooping a hand across the table to the assorted collection of Will’s crimes. His actions reduced to autopsy reports and glossy, high-resolution photos of twisted and mutilated corpses. The hand settled beside Sutcliffe’s file, and he repeated in a quieter voice, “you had a motive and I think you had someone help you with that motive.”

It was a desperate decision, but Will was nothing if not desperate, wanting the interview to come to a stop more than he wanted oxygen to fill his lungs and he was willing to debase himself for it. To revel in the pity and make himself pathetic so long as it would bring the whole thing to a careening end. “So, this whole thing is because of _him?_ ” he snarled, flicking his hand in a cutting arc across the table, fingertips brushing the folder aside and sending the pages askew- Sutcliffe’s identification photo mercifully spread further away from him. “Because of what he did to me?”

“No, Will it’s because you-”

“I wanted to kill him because he raped me! _He_ did that to me! _He_ made me want to do that!” he shouted, the words ripped from him before he had given them the proper consideration. But the chaos within him was fluid, spilling from him like an unstoppered bottle and he was unable to stop it, slamming his palms down on the table so they smarted. “And now because of that, and because he happened to be killed by someone else, I’m just...always going to be a suspect? Anytime someone within a five-mile radius of me disappears or dies, I get to do this all over again?”

He slumped back in the chair, his breath ragged and the salt of his tears stung on the inflamed skin of his flushed cheeks, an itch that trailed down the contours of his face and he flicked his gaze back and forth between Jack and Miriam. The large and imposing man averting his gaze in discomfort, shifting in his seat and he cleared his throat while Miriam’s pity was unabashed now and bile crept up his throat. Acrid and vile on the back of his tongue and his own gaze fell to his lap. He bit out a sharp, humorless laugh, his voice small as he muttered, “how lucky for me. For the rest of my life, I get to be either the violent kid who wanted to hurt people...or the poor kid who was raped.”

The door clicked open, the three occupants of the room turning to glance at Alana as she filled the frame, her features pinched. “Jack, maybe you should call it a night,” she urged, her voice hushed yet pressed. Her gaze slanted, sliding in Will’s direction but he glanced away before he could see the emotions filling her eyes. It was a ploy he leaned into, and he was thankful it worked though he didn’t wish to see the remnants of it. Her condescending pity the shrapnel and debris of an implosion. “You can’t hold him. It’s circumstantial, you know that.”

Jack hesitated, lips curling. He mumbled the word _circumstantial_ beneath his breath, a mocking lilt to his tone before heaving a sigh. “Sure. Let’s call it a night.”

Will’s chair scraped back as he stood hastily from it, the vibrato of his pulse too loud in his head- each thump of his heart lurching within his veins and he was eager to leave. He was halfway to the door when Jack spoke again, his hasty exit abrupted. “Why don’t you save us all the trouble and email your teachers that you won’t be back for class for a bit? I think it will be best if you stay local for now,” Jack said- it was a command, not a request and he clenched his jaw, a loud _pop_ echoing in his skull from the force of the action.

He nodded before running out the door, his speed quickened in case someone else tried to stop him. He kept his eyes to the floor, navigating himself through the small adjoining room. Chilton’s polished shoes stepped back as Will barreled forward, the scuffed steel-toed boots of his dad walking beside him- a hand clamping down on his shoulder.

“Will,” he heard Hannibal say, moments before his own shoes came into view but Will ignored him, steadfastly staring at the floor as he marched out in the hall.

He didn’t want to look at him, not when his vision was blurred with tears and in the wake of such an abysmal interview.

He knew pity wouldn’t be painted on Hannibal’s face, but it was little comfort. Not when he felt like such a disappointment.

~x~

“Normally I love my job, but I’m so glad today is over. That was brutal,” Alana said, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He heels clicked noisily as they walked down the parking lot, steps slow to remain situated under the shelter of Hannibal’s umbrella.

He nodded. “It certainly was. I hadn’t realized the full extent of Jack’s suspicions.”

It was the truth, whole and unladen in his usual innuendos. It wasn’t often he was surprised- life was, generally speaking, predictable when one took the time to consider their actions and the tremors that extended out from it. It was part of what drew him to Will, after all; a mind so like his own yet deviating enough that it was exciting. That he could not sway him in the direction of his choosing- that he was just as susceptible to swaying to the path Will directed him down.

But he hadn’t been prepared for Jack and Miriam to have unraveled the truth so quickly and his interest piqued. Spurred by the young agent and her keen insight- the one he had seen in action in Minnesota though had not fully appreciated.

He appreciated it now.

“Miriam did a lot of the leg work. When you and Jack went out to get William, she contacted the police department in Lynchburg and his school. Got it all together,” Alana explained, punctuating it with a sigh. “I hate to admit it, but it doesn’t look good. I mean...I can convince myself he had nothing to do with Hobbs and Sutcliffe but...the kid from his school? I just...keep asking myself why he would lie about his alibi? And if he was lying about that...what else could he be lying about?”

He rose a brow at her. “You think Will is guilty?”

She chewed her lip, feathering and thinning her already worn lipstick. “I don’t...I don’t want to. It’s hard to reconcile the image of the sweet and shy kid I knew with a killer.” Her voice was solemn as if mourning the memory of the boy she had been so endeared to; protective of him, even if it was not enough.

“He can still be both those things. One doesn’t necessarily negate the other,” he said.

“Do you think he did it?”

He counted the seconds in his head, drawing his face into one of thoughtful contemplation as he considered the question. When he spoke, it was carefully, infused with the appropriate level of sobriety and tinged with sadness. “I don’t know what I think. I’d like to believe he didn’t but there are compelling circumstances I can’t brush aside.”

She hummed in agreement. “What about their theory? That he used you as an alibi?”

“It would be devastating to consider. I truly believed he needed help and to think it was a ploy is just...” he trailed off, letting his words taper- heavy with his disappointment. With the betrayal he might feel if it was genuine. “It’s rather outlandish though. Was that Miriam’s or Jack’s theory?”

The interviews with Alana and Frederick had taken longer than expected, and Hannibal had yet to speak with Jack before the man dismissed them all, retreating to his office with a request to not call unless it was important and muttering about a bottle of scotch with his name on it. It was frustrating, having to rely on secondhand information but it would have to do for now. Until he had the opportunity to speak with Jack himself and pick his brain so that he and Will could move forward.

An opportunity that would be lost when Hannibal himself came under suspicion- a matter he was certain would follow any day now.

It was only a matter of time, his own timeline hastening as he constructed it in his head.

“A bit of both, I guess. I mean...if I consider it from an unbiased perspective, I can see how they ended up there,” Alana said, folding her arms across her chest as they came to a stop beside her car, the sound of the rain a soft patter on the taut fabric above them. “You were there. You were at Sutcliffe’s crime scene. Even back then we profiled it as an altar. A love letter.” She glanced away, eyes narrowed in thought. “And then in his next triad of kills, when he killed Antony Dimmond, he skinned him and folded him into a heart. Long before any of this, we knew the Ripper had fallen in love with someone. I’m just struggling to come to terms with the idea that Will might have been that someone.”

“And what better gift to give than a bouquet of flowers in the hollowed out chest of the man who hurt your beloved?”

“Exactly,” she said, though there was no delight in it. Her mouth was drawn in a frown and her eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. “Miriam was the one who came up with the theory that Will knew the Ripper, and I’m sure Jack clutched onto it. He’s been grooming her to catch the Ripper, ever since she was still in the academy. I can’t fault her for thinking that though. She made that leap off of _our_ profile of the crimes.”

Jack wanted Miriam to catch the Ripper.

With any hope, she would, though the matter was which Ripper? Her intuition was a double-edged blade, an opportunity for him to guide her in the direction of his design- a path that ended with Frederick imprisoned behind the very bars of the prison he once lorded over. Perhaps even in the same cell of another man who once donned the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper- even if only for a short time. There was a poetic beauty to it, a symmetry that soothed the bruising of his ego but it would be unwise to be so distracted by the end when there was still so long to go.

Lest the dual-blade prove to be as much a threat as it was a promise.

He was pulled from his ruminations by the barbed words spoken by Alana, muttered quietly between them as she leaned forward. “Jesus Christ, this again.”

He followed her gaze, swiveling on his heel to find a familiar form striding towards them- the cap of the umbrella shrouding the crown of red curls.

Impeccable timing, he thought bemusedly.

“Doctors. A pleasure to see you again,” Freddie Lounds greeted, her smile straining across her narrow face.

“Whatever it is, Freddie, we don’t-”

She was quick to interject over Alana, voice raised to be heard as she said, “I got wind that Jack Crawford has shifted suspicion from Abigail Hobbs to someone else for her father’s murder. Any chance you wouldn’t mind helping me clear her name?” She fanned her lashes coquettishly, a facsimile of saccharine sweetness to her decorum.

“Neither Abigail Hobbs nor anyone else we’ve investigated so far has been considered a serious suspect,” Hannibal said, frowning at the woman. He supposed he had to admire her persistence, even if it was beginning to wear on his patience.

“That’s not what my sources say. My sources say you’ve got someone connected to the Ripper,” she said, her tone sharp and tilting- eyes gleaming in the artificial light of the streetlamps- the sky a palette of darkening blues and a sliver of magenta on the horizon. “I wonder what the community will think, two serial killers, working in tandem while the FBI keeps their cards close to their chest? Shouldn’t we have a right to know if we’ve got two psychopaths instead of the one?”

“We have no evidence that the Chesapeake Ripper has anything-” Alana started to say, frowning when Freddie interrupted her once more.

“There’s never evidence with the Ripper. Isn’t that his thing? He sure does love watching you guys get in a tizzy over him. Bet he’s loving this circus,” she quipped sardonically, and Hannibal mirrored her smile. What a shame that such shrewdness was wasted on someone so dedicated to gutter journalism.

“Is there an end to this, Freddie?” Alana asked impetuously.

She gave an emphatic nod, ringlets bouncing with the motion. “I just want a quick interview. And really, this is more for you than it is for me. I’m going to find out what I want to find out, I’m just giving you the chance to be the word on the matter. Take the narrative.”

Alana glanced at Hannibal, skewing her lips before turning away, sliding her keys out of her pocket and unlocking her car. “I think we’ll take our chances. The nature of your brand of _narrative_ is that it’s generally disregarded,” she said, tossing a grin over her shoulder as she slid into the driver’s seat of her car.

Freddie shrugged, nonplussed by the slight against her. “Suit yourself, then. If in the off chance either of you changes your mind, you know how to reach me,” she said, pulling a business card from her pocket. She held it in the air, pinched between her fingers, and giving it an enticing wiggle. Alana rose a brow at it, shaking her head.

“I’ll hold onto that,” Hannibal said, reaching forward and plucking the slim cardstock from her hands. He grinned at Freddie, lowering his gaze as if sharing a secret as he added, “I like to keep a full Rolodex- just in case.”

~x~

Hannibal strode into his office, not bothering to shrug off his jacket as he made his way to his desk to pack up his belongings for the evening. He had been anticipating this day, waiting for the moment that their plans would need to be realized with bated breath. An exhilaration in the orchestra of his final sounder; the trill of the delight of being seen by those who were previously so blind to what he was- if only for a moment before the veil would settle back into place.

The first few notes of the symphony though were...underwhelming. Discordant and cacophonous, a disquieting thing.

Will’s face, mottled with tears and eyes red as he ducked past Hannibal, refusing to meet his gaze was an unsettling image in his mind. Will was an excellent liar with a remarkable ability to cry on cue, one that he employed often when it benefited him to be seen as something in need of pity. It didn’t feel like acting, though; the feverish heat of his skin and the cloyingly sweet scent of his anxiety a noxious combination.

He sat back in the chair beneath his desk, the leather of the seat groaning noisily. He sat his briefcase in his lap, neatly slipping his belongings inside. It was unfortunate that their communications would have to come to an end now that he was being scrutinized, though he supposed he could use one of the disposable phones he kept on his person to call the landline at the Graham residence. Ensure he was far enough away from his stomping grounds that the call would ping from unfamiliar towers. It wasn’t an ideal way to spend the evening- driving for hours for what would ultimately be a short and unfulfilling phone call.

But it was better than nothing, and he was certain Will would appreciate the gesture.

He opened the drawer, producing the disposable phone he would now have to toss away and settling it in the bag when something familiar filtered through his sense. He stilled, hand suspended in the air as he blinked once, nostrils flaring on a slow inhale. The smell of sweat and cheap toiletries, subdued by the aroma of rain and dampened earth.

The chair creaked as he leaned to the side, glancing up at the loft space that wrapped around the perimeter of his office. He had to lean back far before he caught sight of the curls, Will’s head bowed as he sat with his back pressed against the bookshelves, his legs crossed and his hands folded neatly in his lap.

He lowered his palm to the desk, tilting his head to the side. “Hello, Will,” he said.

Will didn’t respond, though he rose his gaze, chin tipping back as he pressed his head to the spines of the books. He glanced at Hannibal from beneath the fan of his lashes, blue eyes hidden, and the muscles beneath his jaw shifted, tensed with a swallow. His skin was flushed, the remnants of his tears found in the inflamed rim of his eyes and the soft swell of his lips- the scent of salt still rich on his flesh.

“Where does your dad think you are, Will?” he asked.

For a moment, he thought Will would ignore that as well; making no move to stand or even indicate that he had heard Hannibal, his stare listless yet unwavering. But he did answer eventually, head lolling to the side and shoulders rolling in a half-hearted shrug. “I told him I was going back to school to pack up some stuff since it looks like my semester’s come to an early end,” he said, voice soft and fluttering over the railing.

Hannibal nodded, setting his briefcase down on the floor as he rose from the chair. He rounded his desk, sitting in the armchair he used for his sessions so he could watch Will more comfortably. His legs crossed, hands resting on the rounded arms of the seat. “It was an overwhelming day today,” he began, pausing before he added, “there will be many more to come. This won’t be as easy as the last time you were questioned by the police. It will be more thorough and trying. But it will come to an end.”

Will snorted, the sound derisive and bitter as his gaze fell down to his lap, hands twisting together. He said nothing else, and Hannibal allowed the silence to sit between them- a tangible presence in the room. An uninvited third guest.

Minutes slipped by, his gaze unwavering as he perused Will’s face, searching for something shifting beneath the surface.

“Have you been troubled by old ghosts lately?”

Will sighed, his legs unfolding as he stretched them out before him- the dirty soles of his sneakers visible as they pressed flat against the railing. “No, it’s not that. I dealt with that.” He hesitated, glanced at the corner of the room before adding, “Mostly dealt with that. In therapy, after I stopped seeing you, she made you recount all of it until I could do it without panicking. It sucked but it worked. Sometimes I’ll have like...a nightmare or something but nothing too bad. Not as bad as it was.”

“Then what has you so upset?”

He did not respond immediately, his face a sullen pout and his gaze distant. Listless and faded, the bright blue of his eyes muted in the memory of his tears. “I feel like...it will always define me. The way Ala- Doctor Bloom looked at me. Like I was a wounded puppy. She never used to look at me like that. She always babied me a little, but not nearly as bad when she didn’t know. I could at least pretend she was my friend before,” he mumbled, and Hannibal had to strain to hear him, canting forward on the edge of his seat. “I don’t like knowing people’s perception of me changes because of it.”

He rested his elbows on his knees. “It’s natural her perception would change. She treated you as your therapist and it can be hard to shift away from analyzing someone.”

Will pushed himself off the ground to stand, fingers trailing across the railing as he sauntered slowly down the loft space. He didn’t look up from the path of his hand, refusing to meet Hannibal’s gaze as he said, “I don’t want to be analyzed though. I’m not a science experiment or a case study.” He halted, coming to a stop beside the ladder and glanced up, still not quite making eye contact as he added, “And you didn’t treat me differently. Not because of that, at least.”

Hannibal smiled, the gesture a slow unfurling of his lips. “No, I suppose I was more concerned by the gun you assaulted me with.”

Will ignored the joke, somber in a way that was unusual for him. “Why didn’t your perception of me change?”

He folded his arms on the railing, resting his chin on the perch he created as he leaned forward, his gaze curious. Hannibal rolled one shoulder in a restrained shrug. “I don’t deal in pity, Will. And neither do you. I understand the merits of sympathy but I’m removed enough from the notion to prefer pragmatism. You didn’t want my sympathy. You wanted my assistance. So I gave you that instead.”

To some, it would have been an unkind thing to say. Most did not like hearing that their assorted tragedies and misfortunes were regarded with something akin to ambivalence but Will latched to it, shoulders loosening with the words and he nodded. He knew better than to mistake Hannibal’s lack of sympathy for ambivalence anyway; understanding that though Hannibal might not be as beholden to emotions as Will was that he could have them all the same.

That he felt rage and indignation on his behalf and he would prefer that to the soft, more repulsive notes of pity.

“The worst was my dad after he found out. It was...awkward. Like he forgot how to treat me. And he was so guilty,” he said, and his voice was less pinched than it was, his bad mood lightening in increments.

“He feels he failed to protect you,” Hannibal said simply. An obvious statement, but he said it all the same- more for the give and take of the conversation than anything.

“I know. Doesn’t mean I wanted to be reminded of it every time he looked at me,” Will said through a sigh.

Hannibal was quiet for a moment, watching Will carefully. “It was genuine, then. What you said to Jack? Not just a ploy for innocence?”

“It could be both of those things, they’re not mutually exclusive,” he said with a shrug, grimacing. “I just...hate being reduced. I’m either a psychopath or a victim. Neither are very flattering.” He glanced down at the admission, picking at his nails.

“Not to me,” Hannibal said.

Will glanced up at that, studying Hannibal for several seconds before turning for the ladder. The rungs creaked with his descent, and he jumped off with only a few steps to go, his weight thudding against the floor. He rose a hand, smoothing the sweater that had risen with the movement, revealing the cotton shirt he wore underneath. He crooked a brow. “What am I to you?”

It seemed ironic that Will expressed such detestation for being reduced, yet was asking Hannibal to do just that. To pick him apart so that he might categorize him in a satisfactory way and how could he? It seemed an insurmountable task, one with no clear definitions. He introduced Will to Gideon as his friend yet that didn’t seem right, was too small a word but other grander, more intimate ones were simply inaccurate. And there were no words that felt appropriate, that melted on his tongue and melded with the image of the young man before him. He considered the question for several seconds before relenting that there was no simple answer, and instead settled for the obvious. “You’re Will.”

He frowned at that, his brow furrowing. “What does that mean?”

Hannibal smiled at the surly slant in his words, finding comfort in it. He preferred surly to sullen, and he leaned back in the chair, draping his arms over the curved rests at his side. “It means I cannot reduce you down to the individual facets that make your identity. You are more than the sum of your parts.”

Will’s lips flickered, split into a wide grin at the summation. It was lovely, but too quick to fade, replaced too soon by a frown. “I just wish I could...start over. Just...not be tied down by all of it.”

“There’s a certain appeal to the concept of a clean slate, but it’s a false comfort. And for good reason. We are the culmination of all the tragedies and traumas and joys in our life. All the tears and all the smiles create the foundation of who we are and we proceed to build our lives upon it. Attempting to build a life on anything else would be disingenuous,” he said, lowering his own gaze for a moment before raising it back once more. “It becomes easier once you stop looking at the events of your life as things that happened to you and simply...you happening.”

Will hummed, offering a slow nod in understanding. “A rebirth?”

Hannibal smirked. “No better clean slate than the cleansing waters of baptism.”

Will scoffed, taking a few tentative steps forward- a lumbering sway to his body. “My baptism came in blood and flesh.”

“Is there any other way to accept the host?”

He came to a stop a foot away from where Hannibal sat, staring at him intently. His earlier hesitation to meet his gaze forgotten, the weight of his eyes like a brand. “I don’t think that was meant to be a literal translation,” he remarked. Then, before Hannibal could say anything else, he asked, “do you...love me because I’m like you?”

“I appreciate that you are like me. It is not why I love you.”

Will rose his chin, looking down the bridge of his nose at Hannibal. “Why do you love me?”

He didn’t take the time to consider it, instead offering a smile as he said, “because you’re Will.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that. Have you finally run out of words to say?” Will teased, not unkind.

“There isn’t anything more to say. You encapsulate it all.”

The playful smirk that had pulled on his face quirked, turning into a flat line. He opened his mouth only to close it, repeating the motion several times before parting in a blustering exhale. He glanced away, running a hand through his hair, disheveling the dark curls. “It was easier over the phone,” he murmured.

“I’m sure it was. But it was a crutch. You won’t always have the comfort of a crutch.”

Will frowned at that, a blush creeping up from his collar and staining his cheeks red- perhaps with the memory of their more recent phone calls and he shifted his weight from side to side, anxious energy peeling from him. “I don’t think...I know you liked it- what we did on the phone. But I don’t know if I can do it. Without the crutch.” The words were said in a low, rushed voice- the ends of the words colliding with the beginning, and Hannibal had to consider them for a moment to discern his meaning.

“I already told you I don’t expect anything from you,” he said once he understood what Will had said. “What about the phone made it easier?”

He shrugged, and he plucked at a loose thread of his sweater, slowly unraveling it. “It just...was. Made me feel in control.”

Hannibal tilted his head to the side, brows knitted in curiosity. “Do you like being in control?”

“Yeah,” he answered quickly- too quickly, and he blinked, shrugging once. “I mean. I’d rather be in control than you be in control. I think that was why I liked it so much. Everyone who knows about... _that_ always treats me like...I’m about to break. Like I’m a-” He pursed his lips, eyes rolling up as he struggled to find the right word. The proper metaphor for all the different ways he felt he might shatter.

“Fragile little teacup?” Hannibal supplied, smiling when Will scoffed, rolling his eyes at it.

“Yeah, I guess. A teacup. I don’t want to be fragile so I liked not being the one to break for a change. But it’s...it’s still a lot of pressure. Being in control. But I don’t want you to be either, and I know that’s selfish but I can’t help it.”

Hannibal frowned, jaw clenching with belated understanding, and something soured in his stomach. “Will, you understand neither one of has to be in control, don’t you?”

He furrowed his brow, confusion writ on his face. “Well, someone has to-”

“No, we don’t,” Hannibal interrupted. He may not be drawn to the shade of pity for the crueler moments of Will’s past, but he was well suited with the anger. The righteous indignation and how horrid it was that one person should have such power. That they could take something lovely and beautiful and tarnish it, make it something foul. Make it a game to be played that was not for the enjoyment of such but for the victory of the win.

He watched Will for a moment, careful to keep the anger from seeping into his words as he added, “I assure you it can very much be an equal dynamic. I know you don’t have the healthiest relationship with sex, but it is not- as you would say- mutually exclusive with control. The two can exist independently. It’s perfectly normal for you to want to experiment now that you have an interest in doing so, but please understand you can have sex for reasons other than control.”

“Like pleasure?” he asked.

“That’s a given. I’m referring to love.”

“Oh,” Will said, blinking rapidly. He shook his head, glancing away as he mumbled beneath his breath. Something that sounded like _obviously_ but it hadn’t been obvious, the blush coloring his cheeks a reflection of that.

He sighed, turning back to Hannibal as he added, “It’s always been about control though. For me. Against me, normally. I don’t...I mean I don’t mind doing...what we did again. But I think it’s best that I...take the time to untangle control from it before then. Even if I’m the one in control.”

“I agree,” he answered with a smile, pleased that Will had come to the summation on his own. There was still control in it, even if not the more aggressive one they toyed with. The control of knowing he could say _no_ and that he could set the boundaries he wanted. It was a new thing, and he should learn to revel in that before delving into other facets of it.

His relief was palpable, shoulders slumping at Hannibal’s agreement. “I still want to...experiment though,” he said, his gaze refusing to settle as it bounced around the room. “Not with control. Not for a while- I’ve had enough of control and...sex getting tangled up to not want it just yet. But I think I’d like to try having sex for love.”

Hannibal rose his brows, lips crooking into a small smile. “What a novel concept.”

Will frowned. “It is for me.”

The words were solemn, a soft flutter of sound, and once more Hannibal felt his anger twist in his chest. A just outrage that contorted within him. A useless and bitter emotion, one that would do nothing but corrode within him, and yet he could not abate it. Pulse thrumming with the snap of his rage and it was a visceral thing- a solid palpitation he felt with each beat of his heart.

His nerves frayed and breath shallow and yet it all came to an abrupt end at the feel of a hand settling over his own- tentative and uncertain. He glanced up, blinking in surprise to find that Will had sidled closer to the chair, his movements slow and measured as if a frightened animal. Blue eyes were widened, and his jaw was clenched- muscles pulled tautly.

Hannibal met his gaze, brow-raising quizzically and his lips parted in a soft exhalation when Will rose a knee, sliding it until it sat alongside Hannibal’s outer thigh and repeating the motion until he was straddling him- feet no doubt pressed too tightly against the curved metal arm of the chair but unbothered by it. He was perched more on Hannibal’s knees than his lap, spine hunching forward with a slouch, and the hand that had splayed over Hannibal’s own rose, fingers curling in the air before settling on his cheek.

His palm was warm and clammy, but Hannibal leaned into it, eyes closing at the caress of fingertips across his cheekbone. They smoothed over his skin for several seconds before sliding back, threading through his hair. Will disheveled the locks, entwining his fingers in the ashen blond hair until he was cradling the back of his head, a firm hold. His other hand shifted between them, palm pressing against Hannibal’s chest- fingers brushing the knot of his tie.

He leveraged himself off that hand, pressing his weight against Hannibal’s sternum as he leaned forward.

The first brush of Will’s lips against his own was delicate; more a whisper than anything. He simply lingered, pressing a tentative and unmoving kiss to still lips, his mouth twitching. His breath an equally soft touch fanning across Hannibal’s face, warm and moist and he counted four exhalations before Will finally moved, the hand cradling his head pressing him closer as he deepened the kiss.

His head slanted, tilting to the side and his lips moved more ardently, enough that Hannibal could taste the copper tang of blood from his insistent chewing and the salt from the tears that had long-since dried. Will shifted, sliding down his thighs and sitting properly astride his lap, his arm pinned between their chests and his elbow digging painfully beneath Hannibal’s diaphragm but he paid it no mind.

His senses were a pinhole, everything in the background muted and nebulous as the sensation of Will was amplified. All the different points of contact a delectable sear- the hand cupping the back of his head, the other hand that was slowly rising, fingertips trailing down his neck in a feather-light touch. The knees digging into his hips and rise and fall of their chests with each expansion of their lungs. Close enough that he could smell nothing but the horrid scent of his cologne and aftershave, the rain that had settled into the woven threads of his sweater and clung to each curl, and the fading smell of his anxiety- becoming dimmer and less prominent as he settled against Hannibal, adhering himself to his contours as if slotting together.

The slackening of Will’s muscles in comfort emboldened Hannibal, and he pulled his hands from where they rested on the armrests to settle on Will’s back. He could feel each ripple- each shift of his body with the smallest movement, thumbs smoothing delicate circles against the woolen fabric, sighing at the softness beneath his touch.

The sounds were lewd despite their innocence; wet lips cacophonous in the quiet of the office and the absence of it when Will finally pulled away was a striking thing. As if ending the kiss had drawn them into a vacuum, where each utterance was swallowed whole.

He didn’t move back entirely, his fingertips still settled under the knot of Hannibal’s throat and when he opened his eyes it was to meet the blue ones staring at him- close enough to see the curl of each individual eyelash.

“I don’t want anyone to be in control,” Will spoke, the words a soft murmur between them; his lips pink and swollen and dampened. “But I don’t want you to treat me like a fragile teacup either.”

Hannibal’s mouth twisted into a smile, a hand sliding from where it was pressed between Will’s shoulder blades to weave through his curls. “You’d like balance? An equilibrium between the two,” he said, eyes flicking between the fragments of the blue iris and down to the kiss-bitten lips, pride and satisfaction warming his chest. “I believe I told you it was my intent to worship you. Where would that fall on your scale?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Will said, and he was moving closer once more, pressing the words into Hannibal’s mouth as he spoke through the kiss, “I’m just Will, after all. Save your worship for someone more deserving.”

He thought of correcting him. Of insisting that there was no such thing- realized or fabled- that would be more deserving. That the totality of him was more than a suitable altar for the sacrament of his love and worship.

He didn’t though, returning the kiss as he repeated the words- _Just Will-_ figuring it was all the same.

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 306,532 words, if anyone's curious.
> 
> NEXT UP: D...date night? 
> 
> But with a cantankerous serial killer third-wheeling?


	21. Voracious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead. Well...not completely. Just worked a lot last week. And I really struggled with this chapter but let’s not talk about that. The past is the past. It's done and I can move on.
> 
> WARNING: Moderate sexually explicit content and *sighs, glances off into the distance as I take a long drag off a cigarette* frottage

Hannibal’s lips were softer than he expected, far smoother than his own. Chapped and coarse with dead skin that he plucked at with ardor, tearing it between his teeth until he tasted blood.

Hannibal didn’t taste like blood either, and he supposed it was foolish to think he might find the copper tang on his mouth. A caricature of the monster he was and he tasted only of fresh mint, muted behind the robust and bitter taste of coffee and Will chased after it, tentatively pressing a tongue to the seam of his lips until they parted. It deepened the kiss, Will leaning forward as he licked the inside of his mouth, tongue trailing across the crowns of his teeth, sliding against Hannibal’s own. The hand entwined in Hannibal’s hair flexed, knuckles grinding against his scalp.

It pulled a sigh from the older man, passed between their shared breaths and Will kissed him more fervently, head tilting to the side as their mouths slotted into place. His legs ached, too little room between the arms of the chair and Hannibal’s hips, metal digging painfully into his ankles- but he paid it no mind, shuffling as close as possible. The arm pinned between their chests tingled, growing numb from the pressure yet his fingers continued to trace the knot in his throat. Each twitch and shift of a tendon as Hannibal’s jaw moved was felt beneath his touch.

Hands smoothed over his spine, tracing the arc of it through the layers of his dampened sweater and undershirt. Brushing across the shifting muscles of his shoulder blades and then delving back down, as if it was too much to remain idle. To linger and be stagnant.

The first kiss had been slow, more of a caress of the lips and it was methodical, more of experimentation than passion. Seeped in uncertainty that had all but faded now, dissolving from Will as it was replaced by something else. Something fierce and hungry. _Voracious._ A growl rumbled in his chest, the fist entangled in Hannibal’s hair tugging back in a firm yank as he pulled his tongue and lips back, sinking his teeth into the swollen lower lip in a firm bite. A slight pressure, nothing that would sting too much or draw blood but enough to pull a sharp gasp from the man beneath him. He felt starved- malnourished and in want of something more. They were pressed together now, so tightly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began and it seemed fitting. _Right_.

One entity existing separately only to return to each other, two halves realigning in a way that felt too grand for Will to put into words. Something predetermined, beyond either one even as it guided them and he shivered beneath Hannibal’s touch. Chest tightening and loosening, and arousal pooled at the base of his spine, flooding his arteries so it extended from his fingers and down to his toes, curling in his shoes.

The hands on the back of his waist moved, and he whined at the loss until they resettled on the side of his face; a firm, almost too-tight grasp as Hannibal broke away from the kiss and held Will in place. Still close, noses brushing and the panted breaths filling the small space between them. It only made his arousal stir more, flaring like a hand uncurling and stretching out in demand of something only Hannibal could give. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide in lust and his lips were bright pink and swollen from Will’s ferocious efforts, parted in his staggering breaths and _god._ Will did that. Will pulled at the loose thread of his otherwise neat and perfect composure and pulled it, unspooled his rigid demeanor and he wanted more of it. Wanted to be undone by him in equal measure.

The first thrust of his hips was a jerking, instinctual motion. Chasing after such exquisite friction and he gasped at the twist of pleasure, a shudder trembling down his spine. He hadn’t meant to do it, and he stilled in Hannibal’s lap, his embarrassment blooming but quick to fade at the thrill of delight crashing against him like the monstrous waves of an ocean, beckoned by a storm. A harbinger of total devastation that he longed for. His curiosity mounted, and the thrusts that followed were more purposeful, a slow roll of his hips as he bucked against Hannibal’s abdomen. Each thrust forward brought with it a bright spark of electricity, molten heat settling in his groin.

His lips parted in shallow breaths, brow furrowed as the hand gripping Hannibal’s hair tightened, fingernails scraping his scalp. His hips stuttered when he felt the hard press of Hannibal’s erection against him when he shifted his angle, a moment of trepidation before resuming his bucks with more ardor. Angling himself with more precision, taking care to grind against the stiff and clothed cock, the friction bringing with it a spike of pleasure and anxiety, so muddled together it was hard to distinguish them from each other. His heart was a harsh hammer against his ribs, lungs squeezing with each panted breath. Hannibal's hands still cupped his face, his fingers flexing in small, subtle twitches as Will ground against him.

He swallowed- a harsh, gulping sound- trying to pull more air into his quickly deflating lungs. His own hands moved, curling around Hannibal’s wrists and clutching to him as if for balance. Tethering.

He glanced up at Hannibal from beneath the fan of his eyelashes, pride curling in his chest at the sight of his knitted brow, creased in wrinkles. Mouth open as sighs spilled from his tongue, a flush painted across his cheeks. Will snapped his hips forward, watching the pleasure that blossomed on Hannibal's face- wrinkles deepening, the knot in his throat bobbing with a swallow.

There was no consideration to the moments beyond the one he existed in. No consideration for the practicality of such a task or where it might lead, only an abatement to his desire. Sinking into the wonderful sensations, his mind tangled and lost in the frisson of such excitement. His moans were spiked, tapered things; nails cutting half-moons into Hannibal’s wrist as he grasped onto him for purchase. His nerves were split, frayed so that each touch, each uttered moan shared in the small space between them, was amplified. Acute sensations that traveled his veins like a conduit, warming his blood.

He was startled by the sound of his name- spoken not in a strangled breath but in a firm, steadying voice, and his hips fell from their established rhythm. His cock twitched against the too-tight confines of his jeans as if in a plea. He bucked his hips forward once more, finally stilling when Hannibal said his name again. “Will,” he spoke, the name more of a command, and he forced his hazy gaze to focus, for the lines of Hannibal to sharpen in his vision.

Hannibal still held his face, and the pad’s of his thumbs brushed down the slope of his cheeks, dragging down from his eyes and down to his jaw and Will realized he was tracing the tracks his tears had made. The flesh taut and itchy with the salt, eyes sore from the strain of them- the pervasive exhaustion the oft accompanied such sobs sunk into the marrow of his bones but he ignored it. Frowned at the gesture as a whine lodged in his throat. He thrust forward once more, a half-hearted measure that he was aware was not entirely unlike a tantrum.

“It’s getting late,” Hannibal said, voice roughened in arousal and his accent thicker, sloping and elongating the syllables. “If we’re to have dinner at a reasonable time we should leave now.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation, hips shifting with discomfort as discreetly as he could manage. He was painfully hard, his erection straining against his jeans, the teeth of his zipper a painful dig. He didn’t _want_ to stop, to move from the shared space, and the promise of pleasure he might find if he sought for it. A pleasure wrought not from his own hands moving in time to Hannibal’s voice but Hannibal himself, his touches a delectable sear. But something simmered beneath the heady want, an apprehension of the unknown that made him wary. 

He thought of the interrogation only a few scant hours before, of the words he had been forced to acknowledge in a desperate and pathetic bid to make it stop. It had worked, he admitted, though it was a cost he paid with the currency of his pride; the residual fear that had struck through him at the photos revealed from the flip of a folder still vibrated within his nerves. His humiliation still curled within him, though it was less visceral, less demanding than it had been.

He could think of nothing worse than flaring it up once more, conflating the present with the past. Letting long-dead phantoms continue to haunt him and it would be mortifying- _disastrous_ \- if he lost the often tenuous control he had over them in such a moment. Perhaps that was why Hannibal had stopped him, an opportunity for him to gather his senses before displacing them once more.

He inhaled slowly, fingers still wound around Hannibal’s wrists, one hand overlaying the cool metallic surface of a watch. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, inhaling sharply to steady the still heavy rise and fall of his lungs, his voice a warble.

“My intent was to make pork loin, but it would need several hours to braise so I’m afraid we’ll have to consider a different menu,” he said, wet lips tipping up into a smile. “Anything you have in mind?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, mouth twisting sourly as he said, “Jack Crawford.”

Hannibal rose a brow, amusement coloring his face. Will felt the chuckle that reverberated in his chest, still pressed together, as he said, “Now _there’s_ an idea. Though I’m afraid that will take significantly longer than the pork loin.” His expression softened, and one hand slid down the arc of Will’s cheekbones. A gesture similar to the one might use when petting a beloved animal and it should have made him indignant; yet he leaned into it, head tilting to rest in his palm. “A menu best left to the future, lest we draw unwitting suspicion. But if that is what you want then I promise you won’t hunger for long.”

He gave a noncommittal hum, glancing sidelong at the thought. It didn’t seem fair, a disruption to the structure of his moral code that was quickly floundering, blurring in greed; Jack Crawford was doing his job, after all. _And he was right in his accusations._ Whatever bitterness Will harbored for him was personal, and hardly seemed deserving of such a cruel fate. Yet, there was something tempting to the prospect; to the thought of confirming Jack’s suspicions when it would do him no good. When he was vulnerable to their cruelty rather than suspicious of it, investigating it.

To the thought that he might simply point in a direction and Hannibal would gladly march down the directed path. So delighted in the company of another that would act like little more than a bloodhound. Perhaps that was what he meant when he claimed to be worshipful; a kneeling supplicant slaughtering sacrifices to the god he honored.

“That still doesn’t tell me what’s on the menu tonight,” he mumbled, pushing the thoughts away for now. Later, he told himself. He would consider them later.

“Have you ever made pasta before? I’ve always found kneading the dough to be rather calming.”

Will huffed out a laugh, wriggling his hips as he slowly slid from Hannibal’s lap- legs numb and trembling from the position he held for too long. He continued to hold to his wrists, supporting himself on the still seated man as his balance wavered. “Unless you consider microwaving bowls of Kraft, no.”

“The horrors of living without a kitchen,” Hannibal said, scowling disappointingly as he pushed himself off from the chair, Will finally releasing hold of him. He settled a hand on his mid-back, the feel of his palm warm through the thick woolen fabric. “You must be terribly out of practice. Perhaps I’ll have to demote you to sous-chef.”

Hannibal strode back to his desk where he had deposited his briefcase- he still wore his overcoat, having never bothered to take it off before seating himself in the chair. He flicked the table lamp off, shrouding the office in shadows yet Will could navigate through it with ease. The night sky spilling in from the over-sized windows was a deep blue, not yet the color of fresh spilled ink, and the lights of the city were illuminated in the glass, casting dim blocks of light onto the floor.

They made their way through the office, pulling the door open and stepping into the waiting room- just as dark, as Hannibal had not bothered to turn the light on. The hand found his back once more, guiding him needlessly through even as they came to a halt in front of the door. “Considering the suspicion to be placed on us, I think it would be unwise for you to drive to my house. I’ll drive us over, and I can drop you off at your car when you’d like to leave.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking rapidly as he stepped aside for the door to swing upon. “Right.”

Hannibal parked in front of the building- much closer than the municipal lot that Will's Jeep sat in, several blocks away. He was appreciative of not having to tread such distance, but his mood was sullen as he settled into the car, Hannibal closing the door beside him before walking around to the driver’s side.

The decision to kiss Hannibal had been an impulsive one- as impulsive as the night he killed Noah. Acting on instinct, action preceding thought. It had simply felt like the right thing to do, a recognition of their immutable bond. There were no tangled considerations, his mind blissfully quiet and sinking into the peace of Hannibal’s presence. A word which in this instance was synonymous with drowning but he welcomed the flood.

He thought once more of how there was stability in love and it seemed as concise as something so nebulous was capable of being. He felt tethered by Hannibal’s words of assurance; by the promise that it could be a balance. An equal give and take that wouldn’t leave him feeling carved into and hollowed out. Neither fumbling in a role that felt strange and unsure nor withering under the control of another.

His mind- which had been an agonizing and overwhelming calamity of _too-muchness_ \- had stilled when he heard the soft click of the door. Hannibal’s entrance into the office, bringing with it the swift relief and comfort, and the tension unfurled from his tautly pulled muscle in increments. The memory of the interrogation still a sear in his thoughts, a red-hot brand that singed and burned on the edges, his own humiliation rekindling the pain. But it was easier to ignore, the pain momentarily forgotten and he allowed himself to indulge in the solace. 

The only thought that seemed to matter, to languish in the surface of his mind, was that Hannibal loved him- wholly and entirely. For everything he was, not simply the aspects of him that mirrored his own. The things that were unsavory, that others would reject with fear or repulsion were loved as wholly as the kinder, gentler ones.

An acknowledgment that his life, whatever followed it, would orbit around Hannibal as though he were an axis. He had made peace with the notion- delighted in it, even- but he hadn’t considered the minute details. No arrangement had been made between, no name given to whatever the shift in their dynamic was but Will knew better than to think it would slide back. That there was only one path forward from here, one that might careen into something dangerous- consumptive and destructive. A tempting call to such chaos; glamour found in the volatile rather than the mundane.

An end found in the bang rather than the whimper. 

It was an impulsive decision to kiss Hannibal, but one he was content with. One that he would make again and again, the memory of his lips still sat on his own- the taste of him still lingering on his tongue. 

But now the moment had dwindled, that the ache of his groin had faded into something less demanding and his thoughts became more centered, it called to mind others- more practical ones thoughts, ignited by Hannibal's reminder not to rouse suspicions. Pragmatic considerations of what a life with Hannibal might _look_ like and each one swelled and deflated with disappointment.

He couldn’t very well move in with him, their entire ruse built on separation. The suspicion that would fall on them, even if it amounted to nothing, would only return with fervor if they resumed a relationship. Never to be together in public for fear of being seen, nights crafted with alibis given to others. Perhaps even relationships with others used as a distracting prop and a swift twist of nausea coiled in his belly. The image of Hannibal in bed with another came to him unbidden, pressing his lips to an arching back of someone other than him shifting in the sheets and it was a foul thought. His lips twisted in distaste, a surge of possessiveness tingling in his nerves and he didn’t want that, even if it was all for show.

His mood was souring, fingers drumming against the jutting arm of the car door in a nervous rhythm. The prospect of such a life left a bitter film on his tongue. A life lived in secrecy, though how long was such a thing sustainable? How long might the act last before it dissolved?

Wasn’t it enough that so much of him was kept locked away? That his brutality and hidden depravities were something he could share with no other? He was content with that. He wasn’t alone, after all- he had Hannibal. But how many pieces of himself needed to be sacrificed, turning himself into a crude mimicry for the entire world? He hated not knowing who he was, but he hated even more than that the thought of pretending to be someone else. Disingenuous in too many ways.

“Are you alright, Will?”

He startled at the words, glancing up with blinking eyes to find that they were turning onto Hannibal’s road- opulent homes lining the streets, swallowed by the darkness of night. He sniffed, rubbing at his nose and keeping his gaze trained on the shadowed homes. “Just...over thinking,” he muttered, too embarrassed to give voice to his thoughts.

Hannibal turned into his drive, pressing the fob button to lift the garage door up. They idled for a moment, watching the metal door open like the gaping maw to some beast. The gears turning noisily before them.

“You can go to bed if you prefer. I understand you’ve had a long day and I can’t fault you for wanting it to end,” he offered, slowly pulling into the garage and placing the car in park. He turned the ignition, the car stilling beneath them, and falling silent. He twisted in his seat, lowering his gaze to Will. “I can bring you some dinner once it’s done.”

Will shook his head, forcing a shaky smile on his face. “No, I want to help cook.” He missed cooking beside Hannibal, falling into the routine of the action. He didn’t quite have Hannibal’s passion for it, but he enjoyed sharing it with him all the same. Enjoyed knowing there were few entrusted with the honor of working beside him- even less entrusted with the knowledge of the ingredients worked beneath their hands.

Hannibal’s lips tipped into a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes- though they rarely ever did. “Very well. Let’s get going,” he said, exiting the car. Will followed him aside, trying to ignore the downward spiral of his thoughts. He might never be able to call it home, but at least it still felt that way.

~x~

“Roll the dough in half and using the heel of your palm, roll it away from you. Like this,” Hannibal instructed, demonstrating the technique- his movements slowed, allowing Will the chance to observe. The ball was imperfect, as of yet improperly kneaded with cracks in the dough and flour dusting across the blackened color. Squid ink for the vibrant color as well as the rich flavor- briny like the froth of the rolling waves of the sea.

Will nodded once, a resolute set in his jaw as he shuffled closer to Hannibal, reaching out to try his hand. It was an unpracticed motion, but he was a more than adequate student and a quick learner, slow and fumbling but correct, his brow furrowed in concentration. “More pressure,” Hannibal said, pressing a hand against his back and guiding him forward. “Good. It will take a while to activate the gluten, keep going.”

He let his hand fall, a slow and purposeful gesture as his fingertips brushed down the slope of Will’s back, his gaze watchful. Will's mood was mercurial this evening- more so than others. A tangled mess of conflicting emotions and his half-lidded gaze was dull, sunken in exhaustion, and the too many assorted thoughts that often twisted in his mind.

He wondered for a few mortifying seconds if Will simply regretted having kissed him; an impulsive decision he made when he was vulnerable. A clutch for balance that had only left him more disoriented when reality struck. But the few experimental touches Hannibal had offered weren’t met with stiffening muscles, a pull away from his touch. If anything, he leaned toward them, sinking into the feel of the palm flat against his back or the fingers that laced over his own when Hannibal first instructed him on how to make the well within the flour when they first set to making dinner.

Yet, his face was still ruddy, pink from where the quick scrubbing of his dried tears in the bathroom had left his skin raw. Veins of red, like the stretching branches of a tree, curled across the milky white of his eyes, and perhaps his sullen mood was fastened to a far simpler reason. Stress, overwhelmed by the brutality of an interrogation he had not been prepared for. The confrontation of things he wished to stopper away, stripped and laid bare on the unforgiving chill of a metal table. His humiliation and ire at the perception others held for him a palpable thing, one that would pervade until the whole matter was put to rest.

Maybe he had allowed things to get too far, letting his own desire and the wondrous feel of Will pressing against him cloud his reasoning. The thought of Will making a decision in such a moment of vulnerability was a sharp cut into his pride, a shade of humiliation in its own right and he detested such a consideration. A debilitating blow to his otherwise immaculate facade, yet as with most things with Will it was hard to predict. Impossible to define and he was placated by the way he did not move from his side- did not shirk away from the innocent touches. 

His gaze fell to Will's hands, the dough was worked into a smooth ball, the dull color of the ink glossier now that all the residual flour had been incorporated. “That’s good. Wrap it up and we’ll let it rest while we work on the sauce,” he said, leaning forward so that the words were a murmur into the still damp curls, the scent of rain and the outdoors peeling from the locks. It suited his natural musk, clean and organic. Like dead autumn leaves and fresh-turned dirt, the smell of the world at its most pure- unobstructed by artificial perfumes and man-made compounds.

Will obliged, hesitating a moment before stepping away from Hannibal to grab the cling wrap, winding the dough within it. It was set aside in the fridge, and they resumed the preparation, working side-by-side, and falling into the ease of the routine. The lofty notes of music filtered around them, the chirping string of the violin a haunting melody as it fluttered over the piano. Bach’s violin sonata in B minor and it was a more solemn tune than he tended to prefer for dinner. Suited to the mood that peeled from Will and he glanced up from his mincing of the garlic and dicing of the shallots to consider his profile. He had said in the car he was overthinking but of what? The woeful interrogation and the anger he felt towards Jack and Miriam? The sounders soon to come, the beginning of a plan finally being set into motion? 

Within moments, the kitchen was fragrant, bright with the acidic aroma of the stewed cherry tomatoes and wine steamed mussels; the salt of the pasta they had begun to feed through the pasta roller, thin sheets layering neatly into Will’s outstretched palm. It was fed through once more, this time through the ridged slots to produce long strands of linguine and Hannibal offered Will the final instructions before untying his apron and folding it into a neat square. He set it down on the counter, drawing Will’s focus from untangling the noodles he hadn’t floured generously enough.

“Now, while you do that, I will get our dinner guest situated. I’ll be back in time to help you finish up,” he said.

"Gideon, you mean?"

"Yes, is it alright that he joins us?" he asked, a brow raised. He had been in the habit of eating meals with him when time allowed, but he supposed he could deliver him a tray of the food if Will preferred. 

Will blinked once before nodding slowly, shrugging his shoulders and raising his hand to drop some of the linguine unceremoniously on the counter. His lips parted, an admonishment readied on his tongue that he was going to congeal the pasta that way but the words came to an unrealized end when Will stepped forward, a hand grasping around Hannibal's upper arm. He glanced at it, lips quirking at the flour and dry flakes of dough he unwittingly smeared on his dress shirt, before turning his gaze back to Will. His eyes were wide, shadowed in dark circles, and a pink tongue darted out to lick his lips before he rose on toes, pressing a kiss to Hannibal's mouth.

It was a chaste kiss, innocent in every sense of the word yet he melted beneath it, a hand curving around his waist to hold him in place for a moment longer. To languish beneath it for a few more. So unlike the heated and passionate exchange in his office but he cherished it all the same, reveled in the simplicity of such domestic intimacy. The taste of copper had dimmed, subdued by the crisp taste of the Pinot Grigio he sipped from his glass as they cooked and he resisted the desire to press his tongue to his lips- to taste the wine on his tongue. 

He pulled away, too quickly, and wriggled out of the loose embrace, returning to the pasta and cursing under his breath when he realized the noodles had clumped together and would need to be redone. Hannibal smiled, warmth prickling in his chest, and he hesitated a moment before turning to the pantry and pulling open the latch on the floor.

The steps creaked with his descent, a considerate warning to the man lying in wait. His hand reached out, flicking the switch so that the lights turned on with a jarring buzz, flickering to life and casting an artificial glow over the basement. Abel Gideon was sprawled in the bed he was left in, not so different from his set up in the hospital room though perhaps a bit more tongue-in-cheek. No television sets to occupy his mind, no call-button to summon a nurse when the pain became too great.

His expression was dour, his good humor curdling and contorting with each day that crept onward. Whatever fit of fancy he experienced when first coming to stay with Hannibal- intrigued by the man before him and the role he was deigned to play, or plain denial of his fate- had long-since passed. Replaced by something marginally less amused. His skin had taken on a sickly pallor, eyes listless. His lower lids were swollen, the color of graying violets. Even his movements had become sluggish, a weight settling into his remaining limbs.

Death was siphoning the color from him.

Hannibal grinned as he reached the end of the bed, gray eyes following the approach with unrestrained loathing. The blanket draped over his form came to a too-soon end, lying flat against the mattress above where his knees had once been. “How are you this evening, Abel?” he asked, turning his focus to the IV bag hanging against the hook, deflated and in need of replacing.

“I’m just skippy,” he seethed, the words strained through his teeth. “Though I don’t imagine I’ll be doing much skipping any time soon.”

Hannibal chuckled at the wry joke, more sardonic and cold than his earlier humor. Succumbing to the frigid chill of impending death. “No, you will not,” he agreed, striding through the small corner of the room as he began the task of changing the IV. “Dinner will be ready soon, I’ve come to bring you up so you can join us.”

He rose a brow, head lolling lazily on the pillow as he fixed Hannibal with a calculating gaze. “Us? The weekly meeting of the Cannibal Club has adjourned?” he spat, the words venomous, thick with his vitriol as his dry lips pulled back into a sneer. He blinked, mouth flattening and he turned away with a weary sigh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so bitter. It was fun watching you and that...wiry one playing tug-of-war with the twink.”

Hannibal’s smirk was offered to the wall before him, a quick twitch of his lips before it fell to something neutral, his tone chiding as he said, “Matthew will not be joining us this evening. However, Will is already upstairs and finishing up dinner.”

“Ah. So did you win the tug-of-war or-” Abel began, the crisp pillowcase shuffling with the turn of his head and when Hannibal glanced at him it was with a pointed look. He rose his hands, the palms held outward in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not judging. In fact, I’m rooting for you two crazy kids. Can’t imagine the dating market is competitive for you lot.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched, a flicker of irritation passing across his face, unseen as he tended to the IV. He tossed the discarded bag away, retreating once more to the row of cupboards and producing a bucket. He settled it down on the floor beside the bed, sliding a pair of gloves on with a snap before flipping the blankets over, revealing the catheter bag adhered to the remaining vestiges of Gideon’s thigh. It was full, and he handled it carefully as he twisted the spigot for the spout, letting the urine drain with a sloshing sound. “Will is my friend,” he said simply, nostrils flaring at the pungent scent. “You’re a bit dehydrated, Abel. Are you drinking the water I leave-”

“You wish he was more than that though, don’t you? Eager to get yourself a little boy-toy?” he interrupted, his voice tapered with cruelty, lips curling in delight.

He rose from his crouch, glowering at the prone man. He was well acquainted with the hostility typically offered by his pigs; somewhere between futile anger and the whimpering pleas that fell on unconcerned ears- unaware that each note of fear was as clean and crisp as the notes of a symphony. An orchestra of his own production that he welcomed.

Yet, there was something underwhelming to Gideon’s anger. A sharpness to it that prodded against him in a way he couldn’t ignore and his voice was cold, hardened as he warned, “It is not wise to inspire my anger, Abel.”

Gideon scoffed, flourishing his wrist in a dismissive wave. His eyes rolled, an exasperated motion as if wanting to ensure that Hannibal saw it. “Not as if it matters. I’m as good as dead. Have been since the moment you _discharged_ me as you put it. Or probably long before then. The moment Chilton got into my head and made me think I was something I wasn’t. You’ve wanted to kill me for a long time, that’s why you’re savoring it by...well, savoring me.” His tone was lofty, more introspective than the beginning to a conversation and he slanted his gaze to Hannibal, eyes narrowed. He considered him in the harsh, glaring light of the basement, the overheard bulb casting long shadows beneath the hollows of his cheeks. When he spoke next, it was in a quiet voice- not unlike the manner of a beast subdued by another, mellowed in the threat. “Don’t like to eat alone, huh? Will Graham isn’t always around so you’ve got to hold your other dinner guests hostage?”

Hannibal rose a brow, tilting his head as he said, “I have plenty of dinner guests I don’t hold hostage.”

Gideon hummed, his tone dubious. “But none like him, right? None that understand that _pork_ doesn’t really mean pork.” He glanced away, staring at the wall opposite them- sheets of thick plastic hangings, condensation sweating down the sides of it. The meat hooks that hung like limp metal corpses were barely visible through the plastic; nebulous forms of gray. An unspoken threat. “You know, I think about that a lot. Don’t have much else to do down here, so I sit and I think about all sorts of things. Myself, you,” he paused, gesturing to Hannibal even as he turned away from him, sifting through the drawers. He pulled a packet of alcohol wipes from within, closing the drawer and returning to Gideon. He continued to stare at Hannibal, his expression wistful. “How you plan of displaying me when this is all said and done and you’ve hacked off all the usable bits. And I find my thoughts turn to Will quite often.”

Hannibal said nothing, leaning forward to clean at the drain spout of the catheter bag, the sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol mingling with the scent of urine.

“I guess I’m curious. How it all happened, how you’ve managed to procure yourself a little Ripper Apprentice. Or, the more pressing question is why? What good does a pack do for a solitary hunter?” he asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

Hannibal frowned, twisting the cap on once more and resealing the bag so it was firmly attached to the remains of the limb. “Have you come up with any theories?” Urine sloshed noisily in the plastic tub as he carefully hoisted it from the floor, striding toward the oversized sink- a basin more suited for such chores as laundry or for the draining of fluids than for dishes.

“Loads of ‘em,” he said, the words barely heard over the rush of water as Hannibal flicked on the faucet, cleaning the tub quickly. He set it aside- the sink extending outward into a suitable enough drying rack. He turned to Gideon, leaning against the lip of the sink. The gloves made an elastic, snapping sound as he peeled them off, careful to turn them inside-out. He rose a brow as if to say _go on_ , and he obliged, grinning as he began, “At first I thought you were toying with him. A long-con and that he would be the next person to find himself checked in to _Chez Lecter’s Basement._ But then I realized you’re already playing that game. Not with him, but with the other one. And you wouldn’t play the same game twice, would you? That’s boring.”

Hannibal smiled at that, lips parting to reveal the shiny tips of his teeth. “There’s some merit in playing the same game with different opponents. Everyone presents a new challenge, a different strategy I must devise,” he said, rolling his shoulder in a shrug. He pushed himself away from the sink, depositing the gloves in a bin as he returned to stand beside Gideon. “It’s only the same game if I allow it to be. Only as boring as I am.”

It was a non-answer, neither a confirmation nor denial of Gideon’s theory. Yet, he pursed his lips, scrutinizing Hannibal for a few creeping seconds before shaking his head. “No, you’re not playing with him.”

Once more, Hannibal said nothing, turning his back to him as he pulled the wheelchair from where it was situated only a few feet away. He glanced at the footrests, using the toes of his shoe to push them in the resting position as he muttered- loud enough for Gideon to hear- “Won’t need these. They’ll just get in the way.”

Gideon chortled, a sputtering, humorless sound. “My next theory was that you’re just lonely. It seems a bit...pedestrian though, doesn’t it?” His voice was spiking, sharpened and barbed, and he was approaching whatever thought he tiptoed around. Coming closer to the intended jab, malice seeping into the words. Not unlike the medication seeping into his veins, each pulse of his heart ushering the venom through. A light dosage, something that would dissipate in only a few hours time and would not turn the meat metallic, make it taste like ash on his tongue. Just enough to keep him in relative comfort, from the unending spike of adrenaline and souring hormones to spoil the meat prematurely.

“I mean, sure, I’ve spent two decades behind bars- I understand loneliness,” Gideon explained, thumping a hand against his chest as Hannibal tossed the blanket aside. He braced one hand on his shoulder, leaning him forward as he helped Gideon slip into the bathrobe- a bit more modesty for the upper parts of his home, a facsimile of propriety for the dining table. “But you’re not like me, and even if you did get lonely, you would suffer through it. After all, loneliness is only abated when you find yourself in the company of those with like minds and there’s never been a like mind to yours. Not just someone who shared your particular tastes, though. Killers are a dime dozen- cannibals are probably a bit harder to come across but once you’ve killed enough, meat is meat. You could find them easily enough, or at least make them such. 

“But that’s not good enough. Will is different. Will’s special, isn’t he?” It was an earnest question, genuine curiosity sloping into the inflection.

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, hooking his arms beneath Gideon’s and depositing him into the seat of the wheelchair. “This task gets easier every day,” he mused, earning him a scowl as he smoothed the draping of the robe- the drop too sharp, too sudden in the absence of the legs. He busied himself with the winding tubes that snaked from Gideon to the tube hanging above his bed. “Will is a very fascinating young man. I enjoy his company and his conversations,” he answered.

“Who would have thought we’d live to see the day the Chesapeake Ripper fell in love? Heaven weeps for the torment you’ll strike down upon us should you be spurned,” Gideon said, the words emphasized by another sharp, humorless laugh, the sound pulled from between his ribs.

“You’re so convinced it will end in tragedy, then? Have you given no consideration, in all your ruminations, of what might happen should that not be the case?”

“Oh, I have. But it’s not nearly as fun as the alternative,” he said, his grin ferocious, eyes gleaming viciously. “Love fades, Doctor Lecter. The elements of the world cause it to rust and become brittle until it finally snaps. Take it from me. Been there, done that. I remember when I first met Fiona. It was as if the stars and planets aligned for that moment. Like it was something...cosmic.”

He frowned, something displacing the wrath etched into the sallow features of his face. Something sullen, maudlin even as he tried to grin through it, a smile with too many teeth. “Nobody likes to think they’ll find themselves loveless and forlorn until the next thing you know, you’re sitting at the table, blood pooling around the silver serving dishes and staining the pristine tablecloth. In-laws dead and your wife slumped over in her chair. Killed them before we even got to cut into the turkey, and let me tell you- before the cops came it was the best meal I ever had.”

Hannibal moved to stand before Gideon, peering down the bridge of his nose at him. He was always one of his more loquacious dinner guests, an excellent source of banter. Each conversation filled Hannibal with delight- his witticisms cutting, a game to the verbal back-and-forth that was far more scintillating than a quiet dinner by himself. This one was far less invigorating, inspiring the more crooked parts of him, blackened and withered and his gaze narrowed at Gideon, lips pulling back into a partial sneer that was noticed yet ignored.

Gideon was emboldened by the promise of death, cruel words shook loose in his impending demise. His tone was dripping in condescension as he added, “And he’s so young- don’t you remember what it was like being that age? Carefree and following whatever whim crosses your mind at the time. I can’t help but wonder what would happen to our dear Will if he changes his mind. About you or about this.” He paused, gesturing broadly to the basement, his pointed finger lingering on the meat hooks in the distance. “An entire world spread before him to take as he wants and what he wants is to do it alone. What would happen then? When love is as rotted as the corpses left in your path and blood overflows your dinner table? Would you have to eat him?” he asked, his voice a low whisper in the cavern of the space, quiet enough that even the stone walls could not latch onto it, make it boom and reverberate in a hollow echo. “Would it be the best meal you ever had?”

Hannibal's answering swallowing was a slight sound, restrained even if the taste of bile sat thick on his tongue at the prospect. Will was not a _pig_ , and the taste of his flesh would taste only like mourning. A deep permeation of betrayal that would leave it fetid and sour, inedible, and his lip twitched at the thought of such curdling digestion.

Gideon’s face flashed at the obvious distaste painted across his face, mingling with muted horror because he was right to a degree. That there would be a part of him that wished to keep hold of Will, nestled in the crowns of his teeth. Forgiveness found in the consumption though he would rather starve. Would sooner famish himself on nothing than make a meal of him.

Gideon’s cruel smirk grew, curling upward as he canted forward in the seat of the wheelchair. “Or would he eat you? Maybe he already has. Do you feel consumed, Doctor Lecter?”

What did it mean to be consumed? Masticated or swallowed whole? Spat back up from the belly of the beast- like Jonah- or left to dissolve in the bubbling acid? Flesh pulled from bones, complete and utter destruction with no survival or the beginning of something new?

They were sour considerations, and he leaned forward in a swift and sudden swoop, causing Gideon to press against the back of the chair, chin lowering to his chest. Only inches separated them, Hannibal’s hands curling tightly around his arms and pinning them to the rests of the device, a bodily entrapment as if escape were still a possibility instead of a fevered dream. “You seem to be under the impression that things cannot get any worse for you, Doctor Gideon. I promise you, that is not the case. I’ve been considerate enough in the removal of your limbs. Fear and adrenaline make the meat tough, and I would hate for you to suffer so much stress you experience a premature death by cardiac arrest. But perhaps I will reconsider my methods,” he said, the words a growl. He rose a hand, tapping a finger against the IV, a reminder of the drugs he was kind enough to offer to ease the pain and anxiety that would otherwise overwhelm him. Contort him until he was begging for death rather than becoming sardonic in its presence. “You’re aware of course that the liver regenerates. And I do love the iron-rich taste of it. What a long and excruciating process that would be for you.”

Gideon’s lips parted, eyes bulging at the thought. He might not beg for death, but he was certainly welcoming it. Yet, the horror was quick to retreat, replaced by his humor as he remarked dryly, “Once more enacting the myth of Prometheus to feed your insatiable appetite. First in clay and then becoming the eagle to consume my liver for all eternity.”

The words made Hannibal grin, softening the hardened edges of his mood. He straightened his spine, moving around to clasp the handles of the chair and steering him to the stairs. They had lingered for longer than he intended, Will left to wait in the kitchen for their return. “You know, Abel, that is not the first time I’ve been likened to an eagle.”

~x~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal: If you don’t stop saying mean things about my boyfriend, I swear I’ll turn you into an everlasting gobstopper. 
> 
> (Also, before anyone asks, no, neither of them eat the other. At least...not that way, wink-wink. Only sexy cannibalism between those two.) Also, also, I got a new computer and in transferring over my files and whatnot, I found a collection of deleted scenes from this series that I’m going to start posting to my Tumblr. I won’t post the scenes from this story until it’s complete, but the prequel has a couple that I can put up until then. 
> 
> NEXT UP: An interlude for romance before the bloodbath begins.


	22. Consumption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexually explicit content

Silverware clinked against the china dishes as Hannibal and Will tucked into their food; Strands of black pasta dressed in a delicate sauce curling around the tines of forks. The candles set on the table flickered, blackened wick curling with the center of the flame. Chopin played through the speakers of the record player, the somber and sometimes discordant notes of the piano cutting like a knife through the room, the tension palpable as Gideon stared at his plate with open disdain.

“Seafood, huh?” he mused, dragging his fork through the plate and examining the pink and curled bodies of shrimp- the open maw of the mussels. “Was my leg not up to your exacting standards?”

Hannibal’s lips twitched into a smile, chewing his food thoughtfully before answering, “Your leg will make a more than adequate meal. Tomorrow evening. For now, we needed something a little easy after a long day.”

Gideon chuckled, a hollow sound as he scraped his fork noisily across his plate- intentionally scratching the metal tines across the delicate surface as Hannibal leveled him with a pointed look. “Oh? What exactly does the long day consist of?”

“We are being investigated by the FBI for a few crimes. Would you like some wine?” Hannibal said, tone terse with his frustration as he rose the bottle of Pinot Grigio between them.

He blinked three times at the admission before tossing his weight to lean back against the soft support of the wheelchair, head tossed back in a burst of hearty, barking laughter. The sound echoed through the room, winding between the draping leaves of the herbs. His fork clattered against the table as he pressed his palm against his shaking belly, fingers splayed. “A few crimes? Is that how you surmise your legacy?” he asked when his laughter tapered, tears pinched from the corners of his eyes that he wiped away with his knuckles.

“They have not yet come to realize my identity. Though they will soon,” Hannibal explained, impatience sloping into his voice. “Wine, Abel?”

He scoffed, a single chortle punched out from his lungs as he flourished a hand in the direction of his empty wine glass. “Yes, please.” Hannibal leaned over to fill the glass, twisting the bottle as he pulled it upright once a modest amount sat in the well. Gideon’s gaze didn’t stray from the sharp angles of his face, eyes narrowed in a calculating expression. As if trying to solve a particularly difficult equation; dissecting the man before him with all the nuance he could manage. “That...doesn’t seem to concern you,” he said after a moment, reaching for wine and swirling it absentmindedly.

Hannibal grinned, head tilting sideways as if divulging a secret. “We’ve already prepared for the inevitable.”

“Oh, you have a plan!” Gideon said, enunciating the syllables with unnecessary sharpness, the tendons of his neck straining with the effort. “Am I part of that plan?”

His lips parted, the start of his words an amputated noise on his tongue as Will finally rose his gaze from where it was trained on the swirl of pasta, gesturing at Gideon with his forks as he said, “No, you’re just a pig.”

Hannibal glanced down at his plate, head tipping slightly with the reverberation of his laughter.

Gideon cooed at the insult, quirking a brow as if in challenge as he said, “Ooh. The twink is feeling feisty today.”

Will scowled, shoulders pulling back as he repeated the word beneath his breath, lips snarling. Yet, his protest went unnoticed, Gideon leaning forward as he shoved his fork into the tangle of noodles, twisting it around to create a spool. “Will you still feel so brazen when the cold grasp of handcuffs slaps down on your wrists?” he asked, punctuating the question with the scrape of his teeth on the metal as he took a too-large bite.

The younger man narrowed his gaze, lips so tightly pinched together they turned white, color draining from his face. “At least I’ll still have wrists for them to handcuff,” he mumbled, turning back to his food with an aggressive jab, spearing a shrimp.

“That’s a low-blow,” Gideon muttered, though said nothing else for some time- the stilted sounds of consumption weaving between the curling metal of the chandelier; the twisted bones on the mantel. Metal clinking on china, wine sipped between wet lips and clinking against the table. The flames of the candles hissed as it twirled on the wick, rain beating steadily on the double-pane doors. When he spoke next, it was with a measured voice, calm once more seeping into his demeanor as he began, “So presumably, I will be put on display. Will I be allowed the knowledge of the spectacle you’ll make me? You’re not giving yourselves a whole lot to work with at the rate you’re going.” The last sentence was emphasized with a laugh, a hand swooping across him in a gesture to the amputated legs.

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed in the light of the chandelier sprawled above him, the flame dancing before his eyes. His grin was coy as he said, “And spoil the surprise?”

Gideon hummed, tipping his head to the side in concession. “It may be a bit wistful, but I hope they find the two of you and lock you up,” he said, his tone nonchalant- devoid of overt maliciousness. A resignation within the cruelty. An acceptance of his own fate, voicing his wish into the nothingness in the hopes that some god might answer them. He would be disappointed to learn that no such gods dined at this table.

“Separately, but in the same building,” he continued, the words spoken more to himself than to the audience spread before him. Will’s fork slid in an arc as he set it on the table, considering Gideon with glassy eyes. “Close enough that you know the other is a short fifteen-minute walk away but unable to ever see the other again. Maddening.” He leaned back, eyes closing as a near rapturous smile spread on his face, envisioning such justice. The same bars that had been his prison only weeks earlier sliding across to lock his tormentors from the world- from each other. Though, he supposed, perhaps those two things were synonymous. His eyes opened, and he returned to his dinner, fingers holding the shell steady as he speared the meat of the mussel on his fork. “And they feed you nothing but a vegan diet,” he added before popping the meat in his mouth.

“Would you be so cruel to wish that upon me?” Hannibal teased, but the words were spiked, tipped like a sharpened blade in a warning. His fingers curled around the knife- needless for such a meal, the serrated teeth glinting menacingly under the light.

“Maybe you will get to see each other though,” Gideon continued, turning his gaze away from Hannibal to focus on Will. The ends of his mouth were tipped downward in a frown, brow furrowed- knuckles white as his fork trembled in a too-tight fist. “They do let the loved ones sit to view the lethal injections, after all. Which one of you would get to play audience to that particular performance?”

The words were spoken directly to the younger man, a taunt that made his Adam’s apple bob with a harsh swallow. He paled at the words, eyes slanting sidelong- haunted by the ghost of things that had yet to pass. Glinting with the light of an electric spark, the snapping charge, and a bolted-down chair. Tubes and wires, medication injected into his veins with the push of the plunger of a syringe, organs systemically shutting down. Wooden planks of a gallows groaning, the smell of gunpowder from the firing squad.

“Ideally neither, if all goes to plan,” Hannibal answered, Will snapping his head to glance in his direction.

“And if it doesn’t?” Gideon prodded, lips twisted in a cruel smirk.

“Eat your food, Abel. It’s getting cold,” He chided, tone a low threat. Like the churning of magma before the eruption of a volcano. The distant rumble of thunder before the bolt of lightning striking the earth. “While I have you, what do you think about liver pate on toast with poached eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

Gideon scoffed at the question, averting his gaze to the plate before him. “Message received,” he mumbled.

Nothing else was said for the duration of the meal, the tension not entirely like the pull of the hammer to a loaded gun.

~x~

The kitchen was empty when Hannibal rose from the stairs, closing the in-ground door with a firm _thud_. The lights were off, leaving only the faint amber glow from the adjoining hallway to spill in, dishes drying on the counter. He strode through the room, plucking two empty wine glasses up and twirling them upright. He set them down on the counter, reaching for a bottle of port. The ruby-red liquid sloshed in the half-full bottle, chugging noisily as he poured it modestly in the glasses before him.

Gideon’s petulance wedged within his skin like a nail, an insufferable and demanding thing. It was rare that he allowed such barbed insults, especially ones so clumsy and desperate, to chip at his composure yet Gideon had done just that. It was a meager consolation that Gideon had been interred for the evening without his usual round of medication, and the ache of his recently amputated leg would become a blight in his mind, anguish he could not ignore. He would sleep little, kept awake by the residual ache of a nonexistent limb, and the absence of the now-familiar sleep aids to ease the plummet to slumber.

A penance that made Hannibal's lips quirk into a smile, grasping a glass in each hand as he turned from the kitchen.

He found Will in the parlor, hunched over his desk with his sketchbook spread out before him, fingertips blackened with charcoal where he carelessly handled the pages. “Snooping around are we?” he asked with a smirk, stretching across the desk to offer Will a glass of wine.

His gaze didn’t part from the pages, a slow hand reaching out blindly and Hannibal sniffed in a laugh, slipping the glass into his outstretched grasp. “You draw me a lot,” Will said, a neutral enough statement that Hannibal tilted his head to the side, considered the words carefully. If it was meant to inspire to shame, he would be disappointed.

“I do,” he agreed, raising his glass to his nose and inhaling it with a slow swirl. He took a sip, the sweet and robust taste of raspberries, tempered by cinnamon on the back of his tongue. “I like to draw beautiful things,” he added as if in explanation, reaching out with his empty hand to brush his knuckles across Will’s cheek. He blinked up at the gesture, leaning into the touch just as it was pulled away, Hannibal turning to settle on the sofa. Will huffed behind him, the sound followed by a messy slurp of the wine and Hannibal glanced over his shoulder, a brow raised in amusement.

Will stood from the seat of the desk, the sketchbook held in his hands, a finger slipped between the pages to keep his place. He made his way to the sofa, draping himself unceremoniously on the opposite end. He set the glass to his lips, taking a greedy sip that drained nearly all the contents before settling it down on the coffee table with a dull thunk.

He settled back, flipping the sketchbook open and resuming his perusal, one leg bending as he slid it partially on the couch, his foot dangling off the end. The laces of his shoe were untied, dirty from his tracks.

“You draw a lot of buildings too,” he said, another neutral statement. Hannibal nodded, leaning forward and raising Will’s glass of wine, slipping a coaster beneath it before setting it back down.

“Yes. Mostly from my youth. Buildings from the places I’ve lived and loved and feel nostalgic for.”

Will glanced at him from over the top of the book, a brow raised inquisitively. “Where have you lived?”

He sighed, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I was born in Lithuania,” he answered, though he knew there would be no drawings found within the bound book of such. No memories of the long-ago home committed in graphite or in the brittle chalk of charcoal. “I went to a boarding school in Paris in my youth. Once I graduated, I traveled a bit. To the more remote villages and towns of France. Belgium, Austria, Spain. Eventually, I made my way to Italy where my mother was born and raised. I wished to visit with her spirit in the places she had once presided in and fell in love with Florence, where I lived before coming here.”

The sketchbook lowered as he spoke, hanging limp in Will’s hands and flat against his lap. It was spread open to a drawing of Will, done from memory yet perfect in the soft contours of his form, the sharp angles. Fingerprints framed it, dotted asymmetrically around the edge.

“I’ve never gone outside the country,” he mumbled, sighing softly as he closed the book and laid it down on the coffee table, shuffling across the sofa so he was sat closer to Hannibal. Not close enough to touch him, but enough that the foot dangling off the edge bumped against his shin, the imprint of his soles painted in dirt on his trousers. He tossed an arm over the back of the couch, craning his head at a severe angle so it rested in his palm, elbow propped precariously. “We should have just left. It would have been easier.”

His tone was sullen, propelled into the same solemn mood that pervaded him all evening. Hannibal scrutinized him, eyes narrowed over the edge of his wine glass as he brought it to his lips and took a slow sip.

“I know the interrogation was trying, and I cannot promise it will get any easier, but I assure you everything will go as we’ve planned. You needn’t worry about what Abel has to say-”

“It’s not that,” Will interrupted, his brow furrowed.

  
He blinked twice, tilting his head curiously to the side. “Oh?”

Will inhaled sharply, the exhale a blustering sigh as his chest deflated. He glanced away from Hannibal, gaze slanting unsteadily through the room, refusing to settle on any particular surface. “It’s just...we’ll always be suspects. Any time we get within sniffing distance of an investigation…” he hesitated, worried his lip between his teeth before biting out, “or each other...we’ll come under suspicion again. It won’t end.”

Understanding washed over him, and he pinched his lip between his teeth, resisting the tug of a grin that might cut across his face. He allowed it to wane, lowering his gaze as he said in a low voice, “we can still leave if you want. Running toward something rather than away.” Will blinked at the words, lips pursing as he still refused to meet Hannibal’s gaze. He continued regardless, the pull of his voice a soothing note. “Preserve our freedom and move of our own volition once this is said and done. We’ll leave separately, to not arouse suspicion. Myself first, then you once you graduate. You can complete your studies overseas.”

He was quiet for some time, long enough that Hannibal was readying to prompt him for a response when he finally licked his lips, asking in a small voice, “where would we go?” His gaze didn’t stray from where it sat, lingering on the worn leather cover of the sketchbook as if recalling the drawings to his mind. A mental map forged in charcoal, envisioning the buildings and places contained within the pages in stone and brick. Bringing them to life in his mind and this time Hannibal indulged in the smile, a hand reaching out to pluck idly at his curls.

“It would depend on your schooling. But once that is taken care of...anywhere you’d like. We can settle somewhere, or keep moving. Experience everything the world has to offer.” Will wouldn’t care for the cities the way Hannibal did. He would appreciate them, an eye for their beauty and history but the crowds would overwhelm him, the sea of tourists a blight on his sensibilities but he would lavish within the more remote regions. The serene countryside of France, the air thick with the smell of sea brine, the acidic scent of tannins and plump grapes. The craggy shoreline of Italy and the rolling mountains.

He would want to show him the places of his own past; the museums and opera houses he paid patronage to before his abrupt leave. But they could visit them separately without living within them, retreating from the bustle of the city centers to the more secluded passages at the end of the day, several lives compressed into one. “I have a few places I’d like to show you as well,” he mused, his tone almost wistful.

Will finally glanced at him, turning his head so that Hannibal’s hand fell from the locks, dropping to brush down the contours of his face and resting on his shoulder. “If we’re going to leave anyway, why wait? Wouldn’t it be easier to just…go now?”

Hannibal knitted his brow, raising his chin. “I’m curious how you think living life as a fugitive will be easier.”

Will stammered, words cluttering in his mouth as he shrugged once. “Just...the whole song and dance. It’s a lot and it might not even work.” Hannibal opened his mouth, assurances sitting behind his teeth, only to swallow them when Will scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “I know you’re confident it will but I’m not as convinced. It just seems like a big risk. Why bother with it if we’re just going to leave?”

He fell quiet at the question, taking a slow and purposeful sip of his wine as he considered the thought. Will had sidled ever closer to him, shifting across the cushion with each word that fell from his tongue. His leg stretched alongside Hannibal’s thigh, shoe hanging beside his knee. It couldn’t have been a very comfortable position and he lowered his glass from his lips, holding it outward as he used his free hand to hoist Will around.

It was a swift motion, as smooth as what could be expected when a startled Will shucked in a breath and lurched at the unexpected shift. A hand shoved gently at his shoulder to twist him as Hannibal slid sidelong on the sofa, stretching his legs out and creating a cradle that Will nestled in. His back was stiff, muscles pulled taut before unspooling steadily until he draped back, reclining against Hannibal's firm chest with only a sparse amount of trepidation. His arms moved uncertainly, as if unsure of where to settle them- folding over his stomach before coming to rest on Hannibal’s thighs, fingers splayed across his knee.

The soles of his shoes were now resting on the throw cushion, and Hannibal set the fact aside, reminding himself to look into upholstery cleaning. He tucked the thought away, slinging an arm across Will’s chest in a loose embrace, the other stiff to support the glass of wine that he swirled delicately. His gaze strayed to the sloshing liquid, dark red- the color of blood- shifting around a balanced meniscus.

“It may seem easier, but that is because you are not considering it entirely. You are romanticizing it, and ignoring just how exhausting it will be to always be prepared to run. Your life here will effectively be over, Will Graham as good as dead as you will need to assume a new identity, with no hope of returning to the old. Your face and name will be spread everywhere, and your entire existence will have to be hidden instead of fragments of it,” he said, his words turning into a hushed whisper on the end of his breath, his exhalations making the curls before him flutter.

Will sighed, his head leaning back to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder as he glanced up at him. His nose was scrunched up, eyes crinkled in the strain of his frown. “My dad has the same name as me. It will ruin his life, too,” he said, the words punctuated with guilt.

Hannibal nodded, humming as he sipped his wine- draining it enough that he set it aside on the coffee table. The motion jostled Will, a soft sound of protest slipping from his lips before he settled back into place, winding two arms around him instead of just one. “It will be better this way- for everyone,” he agreed. “We will not have to give up one life to have the other.”

It was hard not to recall Gideon’s words, the cruel taunts that Will might want just that- to return to the life he was so willing to sacrifice at the moment. It was a sharp sting, one that left a hollow ache in his chest, carved out and eviscerated. How easy it would be to heed Will’s own wants, to let him become the fugitive he was so willing to be to keep him bolstered to his side. Drawn together from necessity; held hostage by desperation and that thought was more bitter and sour than the thought of Will leaving. Pride wounded at the prospect that he would have to lower himself to such base and pathetic strategies.

No, he would prefer it be by choice- that, even with a multitude of paths and opportunity branching out before him, Will would choose the one beside him. From want rather than need.

Prefer that there would be a life for him to turn back to instead of the smoldering ashes of what once was, eyes watery with the memory of smoke.

“I do like the idea of my dad not hating me,” Will mumbled, his weight becoming heavier as he relaxed in Hannibal’s hold, muscles slackening.

“You think he would hate you?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” he said in a huff. “It would be strange to leave, but it does sound tempting. A clean slate.”

“That is what you wanted, is it not?”

“You would be okay, leaving your…?” Will began, words coming to a slow halt as his head lolled, rolling as he glanced around the room. From each decorated point to the shadowed corners, pretty and expensive adornments on each wall and surface. He rose a hand, swiveling it lazily on his wrist. “I mean, your house and job and all your patients? Leaving it all behind?”

His lips pulled into a wide grin, eyes creasing as the wrinkles deepened with the gesture. His chest rumbled with the vibrato of his chuckle, a resonating motion that Will felt through his back and he tipped his head forward, placing a kiss to the top of his head. “Things that can exist in whatever corner of the universe we decide to make our own.”

Will sighed, a fluttering sound of contentment, and fell silent at that. His weight became more substantial with each second that passed, allowing himself to sink against Hannibal. The stillness broken only by the resolute patter of rain against the windows, drowning out the distant chirp of cicadas. Hannibal listened to it for some time, eyes closed to the gentle and earthly symphony.

It would be easy enough to rebuild a life, leaving under the guise that this one had become too stilted and crippled by the accusations that would soon be leveled on him. A year or so, enough time that it wouldn’t seem too hasty, a quick get-away from a lucky break. His practice would suffer once the news ran its course, boredom taking root without the steady flow of case studies and curiosities presented on his office steps.

Really, it was the sensible thing to do. A clean slate not only for Will but himself as well.

He opened his eyes, gazing down at Will as a fond smile carved onto his face. He was half-asleep, the hand that had rested on Hannibal’s knee slipping down and hanging limp off the side of the sofa, neck craned at a painful bend. Hannibal shifted purposefully beneath him, jostling him enough that he awoke with blinking eyes, head raising slowly to glance about the room. “Would you like to go to bed?”

He scoffed, legs extending out in a stretch. “You’re not going to kick me out this time, are you?” he grumbled, twisting around to meet Hannibal’s gaze.

“No promises, but I will try to keep my jealousy in check long enough for you to get a night’s sleep.”

Will laughed, the sound drowsy and sluggish as he pulled himself up, standing uncertainly as he waited.

Hannibal rose, leaning forward to grab the abandoned glasses, fingers curled around the stems. “If you’d like to head up and change into bedclothes, I’ll join you in a moment,” he said, raising the glasses in emphasis. “You can borrow whatever you like to sleep in- you know where they are, correct?” He knew he did, of course- had been offered a change of pajamas enough to find them on his own and the faux-saccharine sweetness of Hannibal's smile made Will blush, scowling as he averted his gaze with a jerking nod. “Good,” was all Hannibal said, stepping around the coffee table and retreating into the kitchen.

The steps creaked moments later with Will’s ascent, the sound coming to a clipped end once he turned the faucet to the sink on and washed the remaining dishes- drying them thoroughly. He considered the dishes left on the counter from dinner for several seconds before beginning the task of putting them away, allowing Will more time to get settled. A task that took all of ten minutes, and when he finally made his own way up to the bedroom, Will was already sitting on the bed, the covers pushed back and his bare legs stretched out.

He wore only his boxers and a borrowed shirt- too big, the crew-cut neck hanging low enough to show the dip of his collarbone; sleeves falling past his knuckles. A strange choice, the weather a bit too warm for such length but Will seemed to have a fondness for the softer garments in his collection. Guided more by touch than practicality and Hannibal grinned as he crossed the room with his own bedclothes in hand, slipping into the attached bath.

He changed quickly, finishing the rest of his evening ablutions and turning the lights out as he exited, casting the room in darkness. The mattress dipped with his weight as he slid under the covers, the sheets and pillowcases shuffling noisily as he laid down beside Will- his form too darkened by shadows to discern, eyes not quite adjusted to the dark.

Yet, despite the darkness, Will found him easily enough, hesitantly rolling on his side and leaning against Hannibal- a palm flattening on his chest as he pushed himself off it. The kiss was clumsy, fumbling as Will’s lips dragged over the coarse hair of his stubble until Hannibal turned his head to meet him, guiding him in the gesture. He wound his arm around Will, pulling him close and raising the other hand to cup his cheek. His jaw shifted beneath his palm, fingertips brushing across the smooth skin- still elastic in youth.

He didn’t think he would ever tire of this- the feel of Will’s lips moving against his own, his lithe body pressed against the hard planes of his own. Slotting into place as if he belonged, something carved out within Hannibal for ages as if in anticipation. A stab of hunger that twisted in his gut even as it was being satisfied, a hunger for the feel of Will and the taste of his tongue forever echoing in his belly. Nourished on his kisses- both soft and hesitant, vicious and demanding.

He desired to worship him like a supplicant to a god, an entreaty into heaven itself, and surely he had found it; the feel of his kisses like the collision of the suns and stars that burst and crafted the heavens. A celestial wasteland.

Perhaps that was what it meant to be consumed. Like the consumption of dying stars swallowing holy bodies in their destruction only for more to flourish in the funeral procession. A consumption that did not mean an end.

The kiss grew more ardent, the sound of soft moans mingling with the smack of wet lips, and Will leaned closer, partially resting on Hannibal’s chest as he slid a leg between his thighs. He was still a moment before leaning forward, purposefully pressing the jut of his hips into the apex of Hannibal’s hardening length, a firm grind.

A moan was pulled from between the spaces of his ribs, and he broke away from the kiss. “Will, we don’t-” he began to say, only for the words to come to an abrupt halt when Will _growled,_ lowering his mouth and biting sharply into the protrusion of his chin.

“I _want_ to,” he asserted, sleep and arousal making his voice muddled, low and mellowed by the slight twang of a near-forgotten accent. “I asked you not to treat me like I’m fragile, so stop doing that.”

It was a sullen accusation, resentment dragging into the vowels likes claws; yet Hannibal smiled at it, all the same; the hand that held Will’s face sliding down the slope to grasp his jaw- holding him firmly in place. “You are right. I believe an apology is in order,” he said, his tone crackling with rich amusement as he tugged Will down, resuming the kiss.

He did not protest as the passion passed between their lips mounted, kisses pressing strangled moans and sighs against the seam of mouths. He did not protest as a tongue slid against his own, teeth digging into the soft tissue as Will gave an experimental _suck_. He did not protest as he rolled his hips forward, trying to establish a rhythm to his thrusts. He did not protest when Will broke away with a pant, bracing his hands on either side of Hannibal’s shoulders as he pushed off of him, maneuvering himself until he was straddling his hip- wriggling until he was sat against the stiff bulge straining beneath his trousers.

Hannibal gasped at the delectable friction, eyes skewing tightly closed as his hands settled against Will’s hips, nails digging into the soft fabric of his boxers.

He was bathed in shadows, a nebulous form in the dark room yet Hannibal could still see the slight traces of doubt skitter across his face before it calcified into something else. Resolve, perhaps, and his fingers toyed with the hem of the borrowed shirt for only a moment before tugging it up and over his head. Static clung to the material, charging through his hair until it was tossed aside- disappearing onto the floor.

The moonlight filtering in through the windows refracted off his pale skin, illuminating the soft angles of his torso- the threads of scar tissue that littered the canvas of his skin. “I...I want you to touch me,” he said, the words small but firm. Unwavering over their declaration and Hannibal hummed, one hand creeping up Will’s flank to oblige such a request.

He was still as Hannibal began his exploratory caresses, spine straightened and muscles tense. He didn’t move- involuntary or otherwise- at the unfettered touches, save only for the deepening fall of his chest with each punched out exhalation, his breaths loud in the quiet of the room. His skin was soft over lean muscles, dry from cheap body wash. Fingertips traced the dip of his navel, stomach softened with the thin band of fat across his waist. Any vestiges of baby fat since disappearing in age, the angles and contours of his form sharper than they had been only years earlier. More the shape of a man than a boy and Hannibal hummed in delight at the firm feel beneath supple skin.

He twisted his hand around his waist, palm smoothing over the flat planes of his back. Fingers tapping against the knobs of his spine, grinning when he felt the etching of dimples of his lower back. Will shuddered as he slid his hand along the line of his spine, leaning forward so Hannibal could touch the shifting plates of his shoulder blades; cup his hand along the back of his neck in a firm hold.

He held it there, the hand still lingering on Will’s hips shifting away to press along his stomach, muscles clenching beneath his palm. The hair that grew in a tapered trail from the center of his pectorals down was sparse, too thin for his fingers to entwine within it.

He felt the breath lodge in Will’s lung when he first slipped his fingers over the seams of a scar, flinching against the hand holding the back of his neck. Yet, Hannibal didn’t relent, massaging his neck as he continued to touch the tough, rope-like skin of scar tissue. Tracing the cuts made by greedy and hungry hands, trying to satisfy the ache of a foreign hunger. One that was well-nourished now, teeth and tongue acquainted with the taste of flesh.

Minutes crawled onward, indistinguishable and stitched together- but eventually Will relaxed to the feel of hands sliding over his flesh. Spine curving into a hunch, head dropping so his curls hung limply before him. He shucked in a sharp breath when wandering fingers brushed over the pebbling bud of his nipple, hips shifting in a jerk.

Hannibal stilled, mouth twitching into a smile. His movement was slow, graceful. An arm sliding along Will’s waist as he slid him from his lap, rolling him on his back so he was spread out on the mattress- huffing out a breath of air. Hannibal settled on his side, one arm supporting his weight as the other reached across, a hand cupping Will’s face.

Hannibal took some time to admire him, pale skin practically glowing in the dim moonlight. Spread bare across the black sheets, as if he were made to be pressed against his mattress; made to drape across his bed. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice reverent as if in prayer. He lowered his mouth to capture Will's lips in a kiss, his hand sliding down his jaw and across the firm pectorals. A gasped pressed against his mouth when it settled over his nipple, fingers pinching until it was hard beneath his touch.

He kissed Will until he was breathless, moans tumbling from his lips and hips writhing against the mattress, trying and failing to stay still.

When Hannibal had tasted enough of his sighs, he broke away, dipping his head to press kisses down his jaw, his neck, his chest. Tasting all the places he touched, teeth nipping into the flesh once he delved beneath the collarbone.

What a shame he couldn’t mark him, paint the skin of his throat with bruises framed in teeth marks. He wanted everyone to see them, the memory of his kisses and touch. To glance at the column of his neck, cream-colored flesh mottled with thumbprint sized patches of red. To recognize the slant of the teeth indented in the skin as Hannibal’s.

There would be time for that though, and he was content enough in the private knowledge of their existence. Marks that would be hidden, a secret shared between them.

Will’s moans reached a fever pitch when lips wrapped around his nipple, tongue flicking out to lavish against the pert bud. He tossed his head back against the pillow, eyes skewed shut- a hand rising to clutch at Hannibal's hair, knuckles grinding against his scalp.

“ _Hannibal,”_ he moaned, stretching the name into a whine. Hannibal growled at the sound of it, releasing his hold of the nipple to press a bruising kiss against his mouth, wanting to taste the sound of his own name on his tongue. Decadent and rich, lapping at his lips before breaking away to resume his attentions; feasting on the salt of his flesh.

Will was writhing beneath him, unable to hold still- hips wriggling in a search for friction, erection straining against the thin cotton barrier of his boxers, the slip of the seam parting to reveal the velvety flesh within. The front was dampened, a dark spot from the stain of precome. Hannibal was careful not to brush against it, even as his fingers skittered across the hem of the boxers, dipping beneath the band and moving no further as his tongue dragged across Will’s chest until lips curled around the other nipple.

He wanted to taste each part of him; lap the sweat from his flesh as if it were the finest of wines. One he wished to become drunk on, disoriented by such decadence. He wanted to taste him completely, his musk to wash over his tongue and he rose his head, pulling at the band of the boxers and releasing it with a snap. “Can I taste you?” he asked, voice thick with arousal.

Will blinked up at him, eyes wet and glossy in the darkness. Swollen lips parted in shallow breaths, chest filling and deflating unsteadily. He swallowed, a harsh and wet sound and he pursed his lips as he gave a slow nod, pushing through his uncertainty.

He had relaxed from when he first straddled Hannibal’s lap, slackening with pleasure but his muscles were still pulled taut, tense beneath the velvet softness of his skin, spit-slicked and splotched in pink marks. Rose petals, etched into his flesh by Hannibal’s teeth and tongue and he retraced the same path, languidly dragging his tongue down the column of Will's neck- trailing the dip of his collar bone. Fingers danced up his flank, muscles shifting with the fluttering sensation, and Hannibal slid his hand up to his jaw, slipping it beneath his head to cradle it as he returned his mouth to his own.

He was still beneath the kiss for several seconds, hesitating before pressing more ardently, his hand a light touch between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. Muscles still stiff, too slow to loosen and the hand that curled around his hip smoothed circles in the flesh.

Hannibal broke away from the kiss with a wet sound, nose brushing across Will’s cheek. He smelled sweet, the scent colluded with the spice of anxiety and he hummed, bringing his lips to the shell of his ear as he said, “You’ll want to retreat. Don’t.” He punctuated the statement with a bite, teeth tugging at his earlobe and pulling a soft gasp from within the constricted chest. “Stay with me, Will,” he urged, curling his fingers so his knuckles brushed lightly against his scalp.

He glanced up, catching hold of the widened blue eyes fixed to him, an indiscernible expression threaded through the azure iris. “Where else would I go?” he asked, a small smile curving his lips. Hannibal returned it, covering the smile with his own. The kiss was softer, less demanding than the others had been. A respite from the hunger.

Hannibal rose, sifting onto his hands and knees as he once more kissed down Will’s torso- well marked and painted pink. Teeth dragging down his skin, tongue lapping at the contours of his abdomen. A finger hooked under the band of his boxers, and after a moment of hesitation, Will rose his hips. Hannibal crawled down the mattress, barely breaking away from the expanse of his skin and the kisses he lavished upon it even as he shirked the boxers down his legs.

Will kicked them off, legs thrashing clumsily against the pushed aside blankets before stilling- settling against the mattress. Fully bared now, and Hannibal sat back on his heels, seated between Will’s knees. He lowered his palms, resting them flat on the thighs and slowly rolling them out, widening the space he would slot himself in.

He was truly stunning, a masterpiece of creation. Crafted by the hands of a loving artist and Hannibal's eyes roved greedily over him. Pride warm in his chest at the marks mottling his flesh, his slender cock curving upward and weeping precome.

Never had he seen something so lovely, and his fingertips dug into the soft flesh of his thighs as he committed the sight to memory. Illuminated by the soft glow of night and nothing he imagined could have compared to the reality. He sighed in appreciation before lowering himself, hands keeping the legs spread as he wrapped his mouth around the pink head of his cock.

Will’s breath hitched, the muscles in his thighs contracting with the sensation. A shaky exhalation pushed from between his lips and he lowered a hand to brace against Hannibal’s shoulder, his head beginning to bob, mouth forming a tight circle.

His tongue flattened against the shaft; flicked across the head of his cock and teased at the slit- tasting the fluid that pearled up. Saliva pooled behind his teeth, easing the glide of his mouth. One hand slid from the straining thigh, slipping between them and cradling the soft sack. The fingers at his shoulder dug in, nails cutting into his flesh with a pleasant sting.

He glanced up at Will from his place between the spread legs, finding his gaze easily even in the dark- shadows a gradient of grays and the soft shine of dampened eyes reflected what scant traces of light fell from the large windows. The cock on his tongue pulsed, Will tossing his head back against the pillow and breaking eye contact with a shuddering hiss. _“Fuck,”_ he ground out between his teeth, hips moving in an aborted thrust.

He tasted as wonderful as Hannibal expected him too; masculine and heady and clean. The salt heavy on his tongue as he ran it through the beads of precome, teasing at his frenulum. He feasted on him recklessly, swallowing him down and pulling a ragged moan from Will’s chest as he nudged against the back of his throat, muscles instinctively clenching down on the intrusion. Hips bucked upward, chasing the pleasure and pushing deeper in the wet cavern.

Hannibal moaned, creating tremors that danced down the shaft. Nails clawed at his back, scrambling for purchase as the sound of pants and groans created a wanton symphony. Sinful and decadent, a melody falling on his ears and beckoning him onward. Wishing to wring every ounce of pleasure from him he could manage; for the litany of his cries to mount at his crest and crash against him.

He fell into a rhythm, keenly attuned to each sigh and gasp he pulled from Will- cataloging the touch and the pressure of his tongue alongside each sound and committing them to memory. He slid up and down the entirety of his length, tongue flicking over the bulbous tip of his cock and sliding down until his lips wrapped around the base of his cock, swallowing him down. His hand pressed firmly against the balls held in his palm, smoothing his opposite hand up and down his inner thigh. Tendons and muscles twitched beneath his touch, legs trembling where they stretched around him.

“Hannibal, _please,”_ Will begged, voice ragged and uneven. The muscles in his stomach contracted, flinching sharply beneath the stretch of skin. The hand that had clasped onto Hannibal’s shoulder dragged through his hair, disheveling the locks and gripping them in a firm hold. Legs flexed, knees bending and toes curling into the mattress and his other hand shot out, gripping into the sheets for purchase. He was close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. The balls cradled in Hannibal’s hands tightened, rising upward and his cock was full on his tongue.

Deft fingers slid down through the wiry hair, finding the soft skin of the perineum and prodding at it expertly. Will stilled at the touch, tension pulling taut at his muscles and hips flattened to the mattress before the spasms of his orgasm crashed against him. He came with a strangled shout, bucking into the heat of Hannibal’s mouth with reckless abandon, inhibitions forgotten. He rose from the bed, hunching forward and curling around Hannibal’s bobbing head, arms wound around his neck. 

His cock pulsed, come spilled over Hannibal’s tongue- thick and hot- and he swallowed it. The taste of musk and salt lingering on his tongue and he growled, vibrations quivering around the softening length.

Will whined, trembling at the overstimulation, fingers threaded tightly through Hannibal’s hair and his head bowed. His exhalations were shaky breaths offered to the crown of Hannibal’s head, slowly unspooling from the bent position to allow him to rise, flaccid member slipping from a swollen mouth.

Hannibal dipped his head, pressing soft kisses to the inside of Will’s thighs- slumped and weightless around him before pulling himself up, lips finding Will’s own. The kiss was languid, drowsy in the wake of his orgasm, arms draping limply on Hannibal’s shoulders. The sound obscenely wet, spit passed between them as Will sighed at the taste of himself on Hannibal's tongue.

Hannibal maneuvered him, a firm hand on the small of his back and guiding him to stretch back down on the bed, falling in place beside him without once breaking the kiss. The pillows were jumbled, shoved against the headboard, a corner of the sheets pulled from where it was tucked under and slinking across the mattress from Will’s fevered thrashing. He gathered him in his arms, holding his slender form against him. All heavy limbs and slackened muscles, chest rising and falling as he attempted to catch his breath- pulling from the kiss and tucking his head under Hannibal’s chin.

They laid like that for some time, the taste of come still thick on Hannibal’s tongue- his skin warm, slick with perspiration. He listened to the pattering of the rain and the moist huffs of breath that fanned against his neck, uneven pants warming his flesh. He had thought Will had fallen asleep- finally allowing the exhaustion that clutched at him all evening to pull him under- when the parted lips pressed delicately to his throat, a hand slipping between them. It settled on the front of Hannibal’s trousers, palming softly at the erection flagging beneath the fabric.

Hannibal choked on a breath, jaw clenching. “Will,” he rasped, voice thready as the kisses pressed above the dip in his color bone seared on his flesh, tongue lapping against the bulging tendons. Will's hand pressed more firmly against the clothed cock, hardening once more as fingers flexed around the tented fabric. He nearly whimpered when the hand fell away, only to moan when it rucked up his shirt in a silent request. Hannibal understood, separating long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it behind him before scooping him back up in his arms, slotting a leg between his. The hand resettled on the band of his pajama pants, hooking underneath and shucking them down until they were bunched at his thighs. Will left them there, fingers tracing across the newly exposed skin, sifting beneath the smattering of golden hair.

They curled around the shaft, a feather-light touched that grew firmer, squeezing experimentally and loosening his hold when Hannibal inhaled sharply.

The first few drags were slow, awkward from the angle yet neither seemed willing to separate and move into something more conducive to such a task. Foreskin shifted with each slow tug, the skin too dry though Hannibal made no move to reach into the bedside drawer for the bottle of lubricant- preferring the feel of flesh against his own, unhindered by manufactured barriers. A growl rumbled in his chest, the calloused hand almost sinful in the roughness, the glide quickly eased as precome gushed from the slit, a palm curling around the head of his cock to spread it along the length.

Will shifted in the embrace, head burrowing deeper into the crook of Hannibal’s neck so that he could clamp his mouth on the juncture of his throat and shoulder. Teeth locked into his skin, tongue flicking a wet patch at the center as he gave a slow, leisurely suck.

Hannibal groaned, eyes squeezing shut and he bucked his hips into the circle of Will’s fist- a silent plea for _more._ More friction with each firm stroke, more pressure from the teeth marking him- more of whatever Will wanted to give.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he murmured into the curls, nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale as the hand tightened around his shaft, a low whine resonating in the chest pressed against his own. Lips curled into a grin, recalling their conversations on the phone. Separated by so much distance yet even so far away he could practically see the shiver of Will’s spine with each uttered word through the mechanical speaker, pleasure reaped from the low timbre of his voice. Requesting Hannibal speak to him even as he touched himself. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to take you to my bed, properly? To feel you writhe beneath me and gasp my name?” he purred, brow furrowing as the hand on his cock stuttered, fingers flexing.

“To taste each inch of you. From your lips to your stomach to your cock,” he preached, hips rocking forward to meet each downward drag of Will’s hand. A steady and even tempo, teeth nipping down the slope of his shoulder. “I could awake each morning to your kisses and retire each evening to the same and still, it will never be enough. I will hunger for you, always, even as I feast on you.”

A thumb pressed against the tip of his cock, smearing a bead of precome around as it dragged down the sensitive vein underneath the crown. Tongue tracing the half-moon shape of the bite marks and a shudder snapped down his spine, an electric jolt of arousal that pooled in his groin, molten and simmering. Muscles clenching, abdomen shifting, and his voice was low-pitched, hitched over his ragged breaths as he growled between his teeth, “nothing will keep me from you. Not the bars of a prison cell or a grave. I would kill for you. Hunt down anyone who threatens to take you away from me and sear their flesh to serve to you.”

He felt the pulse of his quickening heart, held in Will’s hand- barreling towards the mount of his pleasure. Nerves cut and flayed, exposed and vulnerable to the chill of the room on his bared flesh. His words spoken from deep within, thick with promise. Devoting himself completely to him, a young god shivering beneath the prayers on the altar of the bed.

A hand rose, twisting in Will’s hair and holding him close, legs slotting against his own, knees knocking clumsily together. Will was half-hard once more, arousal stirred by the words bestowed to the crown of his head like an anointment; by the hips thrusting into his hand. “You own me,” Hannibal confessed, hissing when the teeth bit into his flesh with a snarl. Hard enough to break the skin, spit mingling with blood and Hannibal choked on a moan, shuddering with the crashing wave of his orgasm.

Hips thrashed off-kilter, come spurting between them- painting Will’s stomach and smearing against his own. His vision was swallowed by shadows, blinded by the pleasure that coursed through his veins- capillaries bursting and rib cage splintered. Hollowed out by the rapturous force, replaced by something other. Something that was foreign yet identical all at once. Tremors shook through him, aftershocks wrung from the hand still working his softening cock- too much, yet he couldn’t bring himself to shirk away from the touch. A touch he craved for so long and how foolish he would be to deny it now that he finally had it.

But eventually, Will did pull away, settling the hand on his hip. Teeth retracted from his skin, replaced by slow laps of a tongue and he shivered at the chill, the slight sting. Blood and come hot on his flesh, spit drying and he huffed out a small laugh. It seemed appropriate; torn flesh and blood passed between them. Painting them like a crime scene and he pressed a kiss to the soft curls, dampened by sweat.

Minutes crawled past, punctuated in haggard breaths and delicate kisses in the wake of such viciousness. He wanted to remain this way forever; locked in an embrace, bruises blossoming from ardent lips. But the come was beginning to dry, itching across his stomach and there was no dignified way to peel apart; partially dress and coated in all manners of bodily fluids.

He untangled himself from Will, a whine of protest following the motion. Hips rose as he pulled his pants up, tucking his limp cock away and rising from the bed. Will moved to follow him, moving onto his elbows until Hannibal curled a hand on his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. “Lay back,” he said, his voice low and thick in the residual haze of his pleasure.

Will hesitated before settling back down, eyes glossy in the dark room. He watched as Hannibal disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a damp hand towel. Light spilled into the room from the adjoining room, illuminating Will fully now. No shadows to hide within and Hannibal swallowed thickly at the sight. Blood coating his heart-shaped lips and chin, bright on his cream-colored flesh. He was still half-hard, though the erection was slowly flagging, pink cock still glistening with Hannibal’s spit, nestled against the wiry hair. Lean muscles forming rounded angles, dark curls falling like a halo on the pillow.

The mattress dipped as Hannibal straddled him, knees framing the narrow hips. His head bowed, kissing him fiercely. The copper taste of his own blood was metallic, sharp and acidic. How stunning he was, feral and satiated and spread before him. Marked by Hannibal and Hannibal marked in turn. He forced himself to break away- aware of the dwindling hours of the night and the dark colors weighing down Will's eyes. He peppered chaste kisses to the slope of his cheek, stubble catching on his lips.

He sat back on his heels with a sigh, using one hand to cup Will’s jaw as the other brought the cloth to his mouth, gingerly wiping away the blood. He continued to clean him, twisting the cloth to an unstained section before dabbing at the come on his stomach, a hand tracing the marks that littered his chest. Made by his own mouth and perhaps Gideon was wrong.

Perhaps they would simply consume each other in equal measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shut up, Shut up! I let the cannibal come now can I please be allowed back in the fandom?? Can we stop canceling me?)  
> Ah. Wasn't that nice? Okay, back to the murder.
> 
> NEXT UP: the bois get a rude awakening (literally)


	23. Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a year this past week has been, huh? I’ve been working 70 hour weeks for like a month and a half straight and on the very near edge of a breakdown every day and I still feel like I’m illegally happy. Here’s a 10k chapter to celebrate.

Hannibal was already awake by the time Will woke in the morning, eyes blearily blinking sleep from his gaze. The first few nebulous seconds passing in a haze, reality a too-slow drag to come to him, and for only a moment, he startled, muscles stiffening in the unfamiliar position he found himself in. His face nestled in the crook of a neck, legs entwined with his own. Fingers smoothed down the curve of his spine, between the shadowed lines of his shoulder blades and a slight tremor shivered through him at the touch. The hand stilled, palm flattening against the planes of his back, and lips pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Good morning,” Hannibal murmured, fingers threading through his curls to cradle his head. His voice brought with it the swift recollection of the evening before- the events that found him tangled within strong limbs and pressed against the solid line of Hannibal’s torso, soft tufts of hair warm against his own bare chest. Relief slackened him, his body once more falling limp in the embrace. “How did you sleep?”

Will groaned in response, the sound pressed in the hollow of Hannibal’s throat. Even with his full cognitive bearing, his memory was a blur pass the swipes of the cloth on his stomach, eyes dragging down in the pull of slumber he could fight off no longer. Soothed into sleep by massaging palms and kisses pressed into his skin, whispered praises in exaltation a lullaby, muffled in his exhaustion.

He did not dream- nightmares or otherwise. His thoughts were shrouded and quiet, sinking into the soft press of the mattress and luxuriant sheets. Skin raw, the kisses laid on his flesh like an indelible mark, a sear despite the tenderness. He had never been kissed in such a way; entirely and with such hunger. Such unrestrained desire as if he was all that existed; a banquet to a starving man. Greed that wasn’t selfish or cruel but reverent, and he pursed his lips, uncertain how to feel.

It would be a lie to say he didn’t enjoy it- his enthusiasm was well-noted he was sure, cheeks warming at the thought. Any doubt that had soured in his stomach was hastily forgotten, soothed away by the feel of ardent lips pressing into his skin- hands caressing with a touch that was both delicate in its awe and bruising in its desire to hold him tight. Falling languid beneath the attention and _love_ and it still felt wholly undeserved. As if it were a trick, a malicious game being played against him rather than with him.

He shoved the thoughts away, knowing they were not fair. They were contorted, spoken from a place of doubt that had no reason to exist. Hannibal might be a sadist, a monster who delighted in the torment of others but it was not the culmination of his being and he was capable of sincerity. Certainly, he fully understood now, capable of love.

Will sighed, pulling away as he arched his back in a stretch, his spine and legs lengthening and bones clicking noisily. He slumped in Hannibal’s arms, rolling his weight to his back and stilling at the realization that he was still naked, too exhausted to so much as slip his boxers back on. The skin of his stomach felt tight and the color blossoming on his cheeks only deepened when he realized it was the lingering vestiges of Hannibal’s come, the hand towel not abrasive enough for such a task.

How foolish it was to feel such modesty after everything that had come to pass. Yet his nakedness was somehow more vulnerable under the glaring light of day, sunlight spilling in between the seams of the curtains. Nothing to hide within and he shifted in the sheets, resisting the desire to slip under the covers like armor.

He lowered his gaze, glancing at his own bared torso. Marked in pink bruises the size of thumbprints, a path created down the cream-colored expanse of his flesh. He recalled the sight of Hannibal sat between his thighs, wide lips parted to swallow him whole and he inhaled sharply at the memory, forcing his gaze to lift. Hannibal was watching him with curious eyes, lips quirked in a barely-there smile. Amused, perhaps, watching the entirety of what they had done creep across Will’s face when it was still too early for him to have the wherewithal to keep his expression neutral.

“Morning,” Will muttered, belatedly, his own gaze becoming watchful as he studied Hannibal’s face. Softened in the golden light of the morning, a languidness to his features that Will was unsure he had ever seen before, even in the more private moments between them where disguises and masks could finally be set aside. His gaze continued to trail downward, landing on the circular cut that sat at the base of his neck. The skin red, clotted cuts like a dotted line from where Will’s teeth burrowed into his flesh and he grimaced at the sight of it. He recalled the taste of blood on his tongue and he rose a hand, tracing a finger against the seam.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wincing as he finally tore his eyes away from the bite mark.

Hannibal smiled, eyes creasing with the gesture. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I cherished every second of our evening together.”

He pinched his lips, chin jerking as he resisted the desire to duck his head. “Me too,” he admitted, scowling as Hannibal’s face pulled into something smug. Not entirely unlike a house cat, he thought- a lazy, ever pervading arrogance seeping from his presence. It should have irritated him- and it did, in a manner. But the sort of irritation that was half-hearted, muted by fondness.

Hannibal _loved_ him. A fact he was still reconciling himself with, something too grand and enormous for him to properly comprehend but he still found warmth in the thought of it. And even if he was uncertain where his own feelings on the matter sat- too unfamiliar with the concept to even begin to untangle his thoughts- he was certain he _needed_ Hannibal. That he wanted him, no matter how bitter or explosive a union might be. Even if he was unsure if he loved Hannibal in turn, he enjoyed being loved by him. Enjoyed his declarations and promises.

It was surreal to know that Hannibal wanted him in such a complete and total way. His touches and his kisses and his sighs. That Hannibal _loved_ him enough to throw away the life he cultivated over years. To leave behind his home and belongings and patients, every facet of himself that was etched into the world simply to be with him.

Will _owned_ him, he had said, and he was willing to kill anyone who threatened to come between them. A thought that should have felt oppressive, a promise that should have strangled him but it jolted through him instead, nerves sparking with the memory. Capillaries flooded with the beginning pull of arousal, his flaccid cock hardening between their pressed bodies.

It was impossible not to think of Gideon’s bitter words; the wishes he offered that Will and Hannibal would find themselves separated by the bars of a prison cell or the unmarked grave given to dead convicts when no one cared enough to collect them. When one did not deserve to be buried properly with mourning and ceremony and Will knew that Gideon’s prayers for such a fate would go unanswered.

Will was just as willing to kill to avoid such an end.

He rose his head, lips finding Hannibal’s with a near bruising force, teeth clacking together before his head slotted to the side. The sound was obscenely wet, fabric rustling as legs shifted in the sheets. The arm slung over Will's waist pressed tighter against him, holding him close. “You’re mine,” Will growled between kisses, pressing the words into Hannibal’s mouth. “I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

Before Hannibal could respond to the declaration, the vow so much like a warning, Will curled a hand around his shoulder, pushing him back against the mattress and scrambling to straddle him. Bourbon eyes flashed, gleaming with excitement and his lips- glossy with the spit passed back and forth- spread into a wide smile, his too-many teeth bright and crooked.

Knees pinched either side of Hannibal’s hips as Will straddled his mid-thighs. He considered the bulge straining against his pajama slacks before he leaned forward, draping himself over the older man. His exploratory touches and kisses were a confusing mix of hesitant and eager; earnest in his pressing of kisses into the hollow of his neck while tentative hands threaded through his chest hair. A form that was growing more familiar to him, less apprehensive, and he shivered when Hannibal shuddered beneath the attention, hands grasping hold of Will’s hips as if in support.

His heart hammered in his chest, a fear that was more learned than it was genuine and he rocked his hips forward. His cock rubbed against Hannibal’s clothed erection, the friction just too-short of enough and he gasped, his lips parting where they pressed against Hannibal's throat. He chased the feeling, grinding against the form beneath him in slow but sharp movements, hips snapping forward with no discernible rhythm.

“Will,” Hannibal groaned, fingernails digging half-moons into his hips. His own hips were raising forward, searching for a relief Will was hardly offering, his eager thrusts selfish, unconcerned with Hannibal’s pleasure. He forced himself to stop, growling as he resumed his descent down Hannibal’s chest, kisses placed to the dip of his clavicle and fingers skittering down the contours of his torso.

A similar trail to the one Hannibal had taken last night; but while Hannibal was almost torturous in his kisses and unfettered touches- slow and venerating, taking the time to touch and taste every part of him- Will was fevered and clumsy. Lips dragging on skin and fingers tugging on hair hard enough to pull a choked out groan.

He crawled down the mattress until he was seated on Hannibal’s knees, kisses offered to the supple skin of his lower abdomen and it was only then that his ferocity reached its end. Efforts slowing and becoming more purposeful as he dealt with the arduous task of where to go from here.

His stomach was contorted with nerves, a slight tremor making his fingers twitch where they pressed into his flanks. Hannibal would say nothing if he stopped. He would not whine or complain the way others had when he resisted or when doubt began to cloud his mind. Yet, he didn’t want to stop. Not yet, at least. His arousal was a warm flare within him, a thick and sluggish thing not unlike the lumbering drag of intoxication and he wanted to touch Hannibal. To know him. To become familiar with him entirely- in the light of day with no shadows distorting him, using more than just his hands in his exploration.

He glanced up at Hannibal, meeting his gaze. His eyes were narrowed, inquisitive as he watched Will- wondering, perhaps, what he was going to do. As if in answer, Will slid a hand down, hooking a finger beneath the waistband of his slacks. “Can I?”

Hannibal smirked, hips rising to the ceiling. “Of course,” he said, voice thick and accent more prominent and roughened with desire. Will licked his lips, repositioning himself as he slid the pants down the lean legs- pausing to grab hold of the boxers as well. He tossed the garments aside, heedless of where they fell and resettled himself between Hannibal’s legs as they spread to accommodate him.

His legs stretched back, feet resting on the bench at the end of the bed as he lowered himself to lay down. He smoothed his hands over the protruding bone on either side of Hannibal’s hips, settling them with a firm squeeze. Thumbs dug into the flesh in a bruising press. He considered the cock arching before him, seeing it for the first time despite his attentions the night prior. He could still recall the velvet softness of it beneath his palm, warm and slick- pulsing with each undulation of his heart until it grew firmer, spilling over his hand.

It seemed of average length to him, though the girth of it was intimidating- too large to fit neatly within the circle of his fist. Foreskin pulled back to reveal the bulbous head, the skin flushed and pink. The task seemed more daunting now, uncertainty sluggishly working through his veins. He thought once more of how it would be to stop- to resume the morning in lazy and unassuming embraces before the day could be held off no longer. But he still didn't want to stop, even if the reality of Hannibal so close had jarred him- close enough to smell the heady and masculine waft of his skin. His determination was more resilient than his uncertainty, and his swallow was a thick sound in the too-quiet room.

He slid a hand away from Hannibal’s hips, tracing a finger delicately down the underside of the shaft- trailing the seam of the vein. Hannibal inhaled sharply at the touch, however light, the muscles in his abdomen contracting. Will glanced up from beneath his fanning lashes, blinking at the sight of his heaving chest- half-lidded eyes glassy with lust.

He wrapped his fingers properly around the cock, giving a firm stroke. Foreskin dragged upward with the motion, his palm curling over the head and Hannibal hissed air between his teeth, reaching down to grasp Will’s shoulder. Fingertips dug into the flesh above his collar bone, kneading the skin. He repeated the motion several times, alternating between a firm and loose hold- thumb smearing the precome as it gushed from the slit and spreading it down the shaft to ease his glide.

He repeated it until Hannibal was bucking up into his fist, small and restrained thrusts. He released his hold without warning, setting his dampened palm to rest on Hannibal’s thigh, lips curling into a slight grin at the soft exhalation- a muted protest.

“Do you want me to taste you?” he asked, arching a brow, mirroring Hannibal's own words from the night prior.

The knot in his throat bobbed with a swallow. “If you want.”

Will dug his nails into his skin- hard enough to pull a sharp hiss, unprepared for the sting. “Do _you_ _want_ me to?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Hannibal answered, lips tipping upward with realization as he added, _“Please.”_

Will growled, something stirring within his chest at the word. The _beg_ , and he lowered his head once more, a hand settling at the base of the cock. He hesitated for only a moment, the last vestiges of apprehension slowly dissipating from him as his arousal mounted. His desire to pull Hannibal apart, to so thoroughly wreck him before piecing him back together.

His tongue lapped at the slit, a quick and furtive motion to lick at the bead of precome that glistened on the reddened skin. Hannibal hissed, legs spreading minutely as the tendons of his inner thighs pressed against the skin, creating hollows.

Will hummed thoughtfully, swirling his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The taste of salt, mellowed by a sweetness. Musky and heady and he leaned forward once more, this time dragging his tongue in a slow path from the base of Hannibal’s cock to the head, twirling around the crown. The foreskin was pulled back, a soft plushness to the skin and he toyed at it, dragging his tongue against the thick flesh.

Hannibal shuddered beneath him, muscles straining from where Will lay between his thighs, fingers twisting into the sheets in a white-knuckle grasp. “Will,” he breathed out, elongating the sound of his name, consonants curling in the arch of his pleasure. The sound of it was electric, a white-hot fissure of arousal that jolted in his veins like the ignition of a flame, warmth seeping into him. He loved the sound of his name on his tongue, spoken with such reverence and desire. Such utter want, as if Will was all he needed- seeking purchase in the weight of his name and before he could think better of it or even fully understand what he was doing, Will reached a hand out.

He found Hannibal’s hand easily, prying it from where it twisted in the sheets and entwining their fingers together, nails digging into knuckles. Hannibal was still for several seconds, the absence of his grasp painting red across Will’s cheeks in the trickle of humiliation but he did return the gesture, squeezing the hand held in his own. A pressure that did not relent and Will resisted the desire to gaze upward, avoiding the eye contact he knew would be leveled at him- startling in its intimacy.

Instead, he wrapped his lips around the erection, mouth creating a tight seal beneath the crown. His tongue flicked back and forth against it, each motion slow and experimental. His focus more attuned to the shifting muscles beneath him- the rise and fall of each strangled breath and uttered moan- than it was the task at hand. Not so much a detachedness from the action as it was a desire to ensure he was doing it _right_. That Hannibal was enjoying it, reveling beneath the touch and the feel of the wet tongue as it flattened against his shaft, Will sliding further down to take more of him in his mouth.

His jaw stretched around him, lips buzzing with the friction as he began to bob his head slowly- his breaths measured and slow, nostrils flaring. A hand pushed through his curls, holding them against the crown of his head to keep the sight of Will unobstructed as he swallowed him.

“Do you like it when I beg for you?” Hannibal asked, the words ground out between his teeth. “Do you like knowing I desire you so fervently that nothing else matters? Not my dignity or self-respect? That you can reduce me to groveling for your tongue and touches?”

Will keened at the words, his moan muffled by the cock between his lips and sending delectable tremors along the shaft. Hannibal sighed, head tossing back against the pillows as his hips pressed into the mattress, restraining himself from chasing the heat of his mouth.

Will’s fingers, laced within Hannibal’s, tightened their hold as he increased the pace of his ministrations, hollowing his cheeks as he began to suck with the up and down slide of his mouth.

It was by no means a task he was unfamiliar with. He was well acquainted with the feeling of sore lips and an aching jaw, muscles cramped from a hunched position. But his own desire was a new and curious thing, drawing pleasure from each sigh and moan spilled from Hannibal’s tongue. He didn’t want to retreat, to sink into the practiced motions and for once the present was a _thrill_ rather than a fear. He was enjoying it, stretching it out by slowing the tempo to a frustrating tease, pulling upward with a wet _pop!_ as the cock slid from his mouth. Saliva clung from the corner of his lips to the glistening head, and he lowered his head once more to swallow him down again when he came to a sudden halt, stopped by the resonating bellow of a doorbell.

Hannibal groaned though it was the sound of annoyance instead of pleasure. He rose, propping up on his elbows as he glared at the door to the bedroom. As though whoever deigned to interrupt them stood on the opposite end of it rather than on the lower level. “The last time someone rang my doorbell this early, it was a census taker,” he grumbled, turning back to look at Will as he added, “I ate his liver with some fava beans and Chianti.”

Will snorted, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “It’s not a census year,” was all he said. His gaze flicked down, glancing at Hannibal’s weeping cock as he added, “Should I-”

His question was interrupted by the echoing call of the doorbell once more, followed by the sound of urgent banging on the door and he sighed, relenting that they would not continue. He reluctantly disentangled his hand from Hannibal’s and crawled back, sitting on the bench and folding his arms across his belly in a belated display of self-consciousness. He watched as Hannibal pushed himself from the bed with a sigh, erection already flagging in his obvious ire.

“Somebody better be dead,” he muttered beneath his breath, reaching down to grab his discarded clothing. “Or they will be.”

Once the pajama pants were slung low on his waist- the tie loosened from Will’s careless undressing- he strode through the room and peered out the windows, eyes narrowed as he held the curtains aside. He frowned, jaw clenching and his hand fell to his side, the fabric shifting back in place. “Jack’s car is outside,” he said.

Will startled, half-rising from where he sat as panic flared within him. “You don’t think he knows I’m here, do you?” he asked, his mind a whir as he worriedly retraced his tracks through the house last night- had he been so careless as to leave something incriminating downstairs? Evidence that would lead to him being found in Hannibal’s bedroom- naked with dry come on his stomach? There would be nothing to be done in such a situation. No amount of charm or persuasion that could dance around the obvious- explain away the swollen and bruised lips, hickeys decorating his torso and the tops of his thighs.

Hannibal shook his head once in a firm notion, shirking his shirt over his head before grabbing a robe from where it hung in the bathroom. “He has no reason to suspect that. But he may have contacted your dad. You were told to stay local, after all, and your dad would have told him you went back to school,” he said, shrugging the robe on. He paused as he stood before Will, bending forward and clutching his chin to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I doubt anything’s happened to change the urgency of the case. Jack and I never had time to speak privately yesterday, perhaps that’s why he’s here,” he assured, eyes pinching closed when the doorbell sounded a third time, fingers flexing around Will’s jaw. He pulled back, stepping away from Will as he glanced over his shoulder and added, “stay up here. And be mindful of the pipes.” He flourished his hand in direction of the bathroom before leaving, the door clicking closed behind him.

Will frowned at it, shifting with discomfort in the too-abrupt silence of the room before standing, collecting his discarded clothing dejectedly. His jeans and sweater smelled damp, the scent of mildew threaded in the weave from the rain and he frowned, dropping his sweater to the floor and reaching for the borrowed one pilfered from Hannibal's drawers. Softer than his own, warm against his flesh and he thought of searching for a pair of slacks before dismissing it. The shirt was neutral enough to not raise any eyebrows but the trousers would not, and he slipped his jeans on, nose crinkling at the scent. Fully dressed, he began to pace around the room nervously, hands wringing together in the expulsion of frenetic energy.

He considered- for only a few seconds before realizing how foolish it was- slipping outside of the room and crawling to the top of the stairs, straining to hear what he could of the conversation. A childish whim he shoved down, knowing what snippets he might catch would not be worth the risk of being caught.

Hannibal would tell him what was being said, after all.

He would just have to _wait._

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at the clock, scowling that only ten minutes had passed. He made twenty passes through the room and visited the toilet, hesitating on the flusher before remembering Hannibal’s comment on the pipes and pursed his lips, wandering away with reddened cheeks and dropping himself unceremoniously on the bed.

An additional five minutes passed before he resorted to something he wasn’t entirely proud of, twisting on his side and rummaging through the contents of the bedside drawers, curiosity prickling at him with the distraction. They were neat, of course. Devoid of the sort of junk people tended to collect in such stowed away spaces. A moleskin journal and fountain pen, a glass vial that he pulled out long enough to realize it was lubricant before hastily shoving it back inside, lips pursed in embarrassment.

He rolled across the bed, reaching into the opposite drawer. A charging cable- neatly wrapped around itself and the soft leather cover of a tablet. He pulled it out, setting it in his lap and flipping the cover over. There was no lock screen, the device opening immediately to the home screen and he supposed that wasn’t a surprise. Hannibal was far too smart to leave anything incriminating on something with such a well-cataloged history, the lack of security a ploy of innocence. An invitation to delve further into his life, knowing nothing could be overturned. There would be nothing of note on the tablet, yet he flicked through it all the same- dragging down the notification bar. There was an advertisement for a new book from an author Hannibal purchased from before, an update for a chess app.

His finger hovered over the third notification down, a ping from _TattleCrime_ , the icon a dizzying blend of too many reds. _Trending Article: FBI_ _Brings in New Suspect for the Shrike Murder._

He blinked at the screen, finger hovering over the notification bar. His lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them mindlessly before rolling his lower lip between his teeth. _It was about him._

He stared at the words, backlight by the glow of the device until they carved themselves into his mind. Until he could clamp his eyes shut and still see the image of them, blurry in the recollection but concise. He was aware of the sort of articles peddled by the tabloid site- familiar enough with Lounds to feel the prickle of dread that crept down each knot of his spine, the anxious twist of his stomach.

It would not be flattering, he knew, and his mind was practically screaming within the curved confines of his skull. Begging him to set the tablet aside and wait patiently for Hannibal to return. Clicking the link would only spur his ire, wind him up until he was a bundle of erratic nerves.

He made his decision impulsively; when the screen dimmed from the lack of activity and he startled to correct it- clicking the link and chewing his lip as it shifted to open the app.

~x~

Hannibal’s frustration was a palpable thing, peeling off him in waves as he closed the bedroom door behind him and marched downstairs. The memory of Will’s lips and tongue seared on his flesh, enduring marks burrowing beneath his skin. Will had not marked him the same way he had- the sharp press of his teeth too quick, too furtive to leave the rose petal trail of bites that dotted his own torso. Yet he may as well have, the feel of his mouth leaving an impression of its path.

The bruising press of his hand on his hip- the other settled in his palm- lingered; the sight of Will settled between his thighs was one that carved itself into his mind. A memory hastily stitched together in flesh and spit and the liquid heat of arousal, one that would remain in the hallowed walls of his mind- long after everything else had faded and turned to rot and dust. An effigy that would not compare, manufactured angles paling in comparison to their muse.

He was unsure of what Will’s intent had been- of how far he was willing to go with their dalliances but there was a gleam of determination in his eyes. Features drawn and resolute and his gaze was half-lidded in arousal as he wrapped his plush lips around Hannibal’s erect member. It was clear he didn’t care for Hannibal’s protests even if they were wrought from a rare place of concern, and so Hannibal had chosen instead to observe. To study Will’s face as it shifted between apprehension to certainty, until the cheeks flushed in the glow of lust. The hum of his moans as he responded to the timber of Hannibal’s voice was exquisite and the strain of keeping his hips pressed to the mattress had become a tremble through his aching muscles.

He was greedy, wanting nothing more than to pull Will to him and lay him down. Tasting and kissing him with a clearer, more purposeful end in sight. Wanted to feel within him, to settle inside him in the space carved out as if in anticipation of him. To feel him quiver beneath him, around him; for his senses to be overwhelmed by Will. The feel of his soft curls and dry skin, heart pattering a staccato within his ribs. The taste of his sweat and the twang of copper from his bitten lip. His aroma an intoxicating scent, like dirt and air and leaves softened in decay, sweet like cardamom and cloves; the arch of his spine and eyes pinched shut in pleasure- moans and sighs spilling from his tongue.

He wanted to pull him apart with the promise of all he could offer him only to piece him back together as he held him in his arms after; tangled limbs and come stained thighs, chest falling in ragged, satisfied breaths. A fantasy he knew would sit within his mind before being realized. His patience tested and rewarded.

It was a promising start to a morning that came to a too abrupt end, heralded in by Jack Crawford of all people and he was beginning to see merit to Will’s desire to kill him. He perused his mental catalog of recipes as he paused at the landing of the stairs, taking a moment to consider the home to ensure nothing of Will’s presence could be seen before striding to the door. It swung open with a groan, the figures of Jack and Alana filling the small alcove.

“Good morning,” he greeted, tone roughened as if he was pulled hastily from the clutches of sleep, blinking rapidly in the sudden light of day. He offered a slight smile, gesturing to his attire with an open palm. “I apologize. I don’t normally make a habit of welcoming guests in such a state but it’s rather early.”

Alana frowned, eyes furrowing apologetically. “No, we’re sorry. We know it’s early and the weekend but-” she paused, hesitating on the words as she glanced sidelong at Jack.

“May we come in?” the agent interjected, his smile congenial if insincere- strained through an immediacy that made Hannibal step aside to allow them entrance.

“Of course. Would you care for some coffee?” he offered, already turning his back to them as he headed in the direction of his kitchen. It was a warm morning, the air thick and humid and there were no jackets to be collected and hung. No more pleasantries to be offered besides the offering of food and drink.

“We’d hate to trouble you more than we already have,” Alana said, words trailing loftily as she followed Hannibal.

“It’s no trouble at all. I haven’t had any yet myself,” he said, careful to keep the bitterness from barbing his words. Ire at the world for having chosen the moment it did to set itself into motion once more, preferring the quiet segment of it he often found himself in while in Will’s presence.

“Sorry to bother you at home, Hannibal. We tried calling but each one went to voicemail,” Alana began, smiling apologetically as she and Jack followed him into the kitchen- sunlight filtering in through the large, double-pane doors. It fell on the steel countertops and bright white surfaces, illuminating them with a glare just short of too-harsh and he made no move to turn the overhead lights on, striding purposefully toward the French press.

“Ah. I turn my phone on silent for the weekends,” he explained, opening a cupboard and reaching for a jar of coffee beans. He unscrewed the lid, the fragrant smell wafting out and filling the room. “An old habit, I’m afraid, as if I had given it in any thought to current circumstances I would have realized it was best to keep it on. My apologies,” he added, glancing at the two of them from over his shoulder.

Jack shook his head, raising a hand and slicing it dismissively through the air. “No reason to apologize. But yes...maybe it will be best if you keep it on until this whole matter is sorted,” he said.

His spine stiffened, straightening at the words, nerves bristled by the implicit command. Yet, he forced his face into one of proper humility, lips tipping up into a smile. “Of course,” he agreed. The conversation paused for a moment, silenced by the grating sound of the coffee grinder as Hannibal fed the whole beans through before turning his attention to the task of coffee. An arduous task, a methodical motion he fell into easily in each morning- finding comfort in the routine of it all. Though this morning had the added delight of Jack shifting with impatience behind him, mouth flattening into a pinched expression that he leveled at Hannibal’s back.

“It must have been important if several unanswered calls sent you all the way to Baltimore,” he began, when he could no longer reasonably draw out the conversation. Water bubbled, churning noisily into a boil and he turned away for a moment, producing three cups from a cabinet. Ceramic mugs clinked sharply as he set them down on the counter, hand resting beside them as he glanced at Jack and Alana with inquisitive eyes. Fingers brushed over the metallic base of the knife block as he added, “Is everything alright?”

“Just busy trying to sort out the riddle that is Will Graham,” Jack started, stepping forward to stand on the opposite side of the counter, leaning over on resting forearms. “And we’re not the only ones. Alana told me Freddie Lounds stopped you both outside yesterday.”

Hannibal nodded, his gaze sliding to meet Alana’s. “She did. Though neither of us said anything, as I’m sure she also mentioned.”

“Someone did.”

He turned away at the words, resuming his attention with the coffee. The smell was overbearing now, rich and nutty, warm in the otherwise cold and unforgiving surfaces of the kitchen. The machine made a hissing noise as he set a cup beneath the spout, lowering the lever to fill it. “Is that so? Has she run a premature article on the investigation?”

“Yes,” Alana spoke, heels clacking on slate floors as she moved further into the room. “And it’s...not flattering.”

Hannibal stilled, blinking down at the coffee. The black surface disrupted by frothing bubbles, steaming billowing upward. “For the FBI? Or Will?”

A moment of hesitation passed before the reluctant answer came to him from both parties, unified voices mingling on an uneven beat. “Both.”

“I see. What exactly has our good friend Miss Lounds said?” Hannibal asked, filling each cup and setting them out on the counter. He rose his gaze briefly, finding Alana’s own before he turned away, opening the fridge and handing her a small jug of milk. She accepted it with _thanks_ , pouring some into the coffee so it swirled- bright streams of white cutting through the dark liquid before it mixed in.

“That we’ve been wasting time investigating Abigail but are finally on the right path with our new lead,” Jack answered, his tone condemning as he bit out the words- the mention of Lounds like a splinter sinking into his skin. “She’s connected Will to the Chesapeake Ripper through Sutcliffe’s murder. She had to speak with someone to get a hold of our theory.”

Hannibal reached for his cup of coffee, warmth spreading through his palm as it curled around the glass well. He blinked, raising a brow in an elegant arch. “And she wrote about it?”

“As much as she could without toeing the legal lines protecting minors,” Alana answered, bowing her head to look at her coffee before she could see the subtle shift in Hannibal’s demeanor. The tossing of his weight between his feet and the imperceptible flattening of his lips in distaste at the word.

“Will’s not a minor,” he said, an obvious statement though one he voiced all the same.

Alana tipped her head in reluctant agreement, opening her mouth only to close it. Swallowing words that would no doubt have infantilized Will in the way he hated even as he weaponized it, made it into the very ploy he turned against others. “Not anymore, but he was at the time,” she conceded.

Hannibal nodded, bringing the drink to his mouth and taking a slow sip. _Tasteless_ , he thought, imagining the egregious article Lounds would publish on the matter. Salacious and sordid, concerned only with the revenue earned from the too-many advertisements that hung like banners on the webpage and the traffic she could pull to the site. Yet, she was adept at such. Her words ever so carefully chosen to appeal to her audience; morbid curiosity woven within the attention-grabbing headlines. Couch detectives fascinated by the process of true crime and the gory details of such vile and reproachable things that they could observe from a safe distance. Tourists passing through a zoo with the ability to set it down when it became too much, a glass of wine balanced in their palm.

It would be a thrilling story, he could acknowledge. A compelling series of crimes writ in tragedy, revenge, and romance consummated in blood and torment. Truthfully, he admired Lounds for her insight. A keen perception that might have been damning within the right circumstances but there was no amusement at the thought of such an article. Something stirred within his chest, something with sharpened teeth and claws.

“Have you considered Doctor Chilton?” he asked, slanting his gaze to Jack.

The man blinked at the suggestion, a brow rose as he asked, “as the leak?”

Hannibal took another sip of the coffee, rich and bitter with the faintest hint of cinnamon. He lowered the mug, setting it down on the counter with a dull thunk. “It is not my intent to point fingers, but while we were escorting Abigail to her mother’s funeral and were approached by Miss Lounds, Frederick did remark that sometimes it could behoove one to take hold of the narrative. Perhaps that is a sentiment he’s taken to heart,” he said, rolling a shoulder forward as if in a shrug.

Jack tipped his head to the side, inhaling sharply as he considered the thought- Chilton’s preference for the ambient glow of a spotlight flitting through his mind. When several seconds had slipped by, he sighed, tapping a finger to the counter before reaching for his own mug of coffee. “I’ll speak with him, see if he knows anything,” he said, sipping his drink before adding, “In the meantime, I called William Graham about stopping by today with Will. See if he’s up for a few more questions.” He paused, a theatrical break in the words that was unusual for the blunt and intimidating man. “He said Will went back to his school to pick up a few things but hasn’t talked to him since he left.”

The words were sharpened, angled in accusation. A soft sound of protest came from Alana, her eyes creasing as she pinched them closed. “Jack seems to be under the impression Will’s run off,” she added, ignoring the pointed look offered from the man beside her.

“If I understand correctly, his school is a considerable distance away and it was a difficult day for him. I’m sure he just wanted one final night of normalcy,” Hannibal reasoned, reaching once more for his coffee and smiling pleasantly before taking a sip.

“Regardless, I told William to call me when he does hear from him so we can arrange for a meeting,” Jack said, raising a hand and slicing it through the air in a dismissive gesture. He settled it back down, flat on the counter as his expression sobered, turning pensive. “Lounds will be stopping by Quantico, too.”

“You plan on asking her to recant?”

“Not quite,” Alana winced, twisting the handle of her mug so that the remaining liquid swirled and sloshed with the motion.

“We’ve known that the Chesapeake Ripper reads her articles. Or at least, he did during the whole media circus that Chilton and Gideon were at the helm of. If there’s one thing that we learned, it’s that the Ripper doesn’t like getting press for the wrong reasons,” Jack said, his tone conspiratorial- opportunistic of the cards dealt him despite the unsavory writing decrying the FBI for their mishandling of the Shrike investigation.

A flicker of indignation pulsed like static through Hannibal's bones, humorless mirth brimming within it at the slow realization. Jack intended to lure the Chesapeake Ripper to act, Will Graham the bait to the much larger, more fearsome predator. “The Ripper is also not known for his impulsiveness. Was her article so inflammatory?”

“Of Will, yes.”

“You’d like to bait him. See if your theory is correct.”

Jack sighed, draining his coffee and wincing at the heat, lips pulled into a grimace and Hannibal wondered how long he had been awake for. Fueled only by a few meager hours of sleep and an obsession with an elusive serial killer. One that was, in many ways, closer than ever before. “Love can be a ferocious thing. I can’t imagine the Ripper would sit idly by through all this,” Jack began, clearing his throat to ease the ache of his sensitive palette. “To go through all the trouble to kill Sutcliffe in honor of Will, only for his memory and crimes to be splattered across a tabloid? That’s a call to action if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Indeed. If you’re right in your theories, of course,” Hannibal conceded, curiosity dragging like claws into the soft folds of his brain. Curious for the tale Lounds might have painted, for the truths obscured within the lies and purple prose she oft employed. Regardless of what woven tale would be waiting for him, he was certain Will would detest it. Certain he would seethe with rage and excitement prickled within him at the thought.

He was at his most stunning when filled with righteous fury, unhinged by his desire to _hurt_.

“Call it an intuition,” Jack said, the words enunciated with sharpness, crude and cutting. “There’s something wrong with him. With Will, I mean. Something...off. I know it and I think, deep down, you both know it as well.”

Hannibal said nothing, his gaze sliding to Alana. Her head remained bowed over the cup of coffee held with two hands, lips pursed as she remained quiet- unable to contest Jack’s statement.

He turned his focus onto Jack once more. “Is Miss Lounds aware that she is being used as bait?”

“She isn’t, because she’s not,” he answered with a frown. “I would like for her to stop by the offices around the same time Will does. I want her to do what she does best.”

“You’re hoping she’ll try to interview him?” Hannibal asked, punctuating the question with a raised brow and tilting the mug to his lips, finishing his coffee. The dish clinked as he set it down, the noise amplified with the hollowed vessel.

“I’m hoping she keeps interested in him long enough to keep writing about him. String the story along, string the Ripper along,” he said. “Interviewing him would be a bonus but something tells me Will wouldn’t cooperate with that. He’s not as refined as the Ripper. He’s a college student in over his head and he’ll make missteps where the Ripper won’t.”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, turning his back for a moment to set his empty mug in the sink. When he turned around, it was to lean against the counter, fingers curling on the steel surface as he braced himself. “Getting in bed with any journalist tends to come with too many variables- least of all one such as Lounds. Are you certain this is a ploy you’d like to pursue?”

Jack shrugged, exhaling a blustering breath. He stepped cautiously around the island, his gaze slowly perusing the room before settling on Hannibal. His lower eyelids were swollen, puffy with sleepless nights and the milky whites of his eyes were threaded with red, pink staining the tapered ends. “A harmless little experiment. If we can...nudge the Ripper to respond, maybe we can determine where exactly he and Will sit in this whole matter.”

“Harmless. The Ripper has rarely ever been harmless, Jack,” Alana scoffed, tipping her chin back and arching a brow in a challenging glare.

“Lounds will be given security detail. Everything beyond that is out of our control,” Jack retorted, lips pulled back in a snarl he only barely managed to restrain, slicing a hand through the air in a definitive gesture. He pinched his eyes closed, sighing as he added in a softer, almost deflated voice, “we’re desperate. Each day that passes without catching the Ripper is a day closer to another triad of kills and you know as well as I do that it’s long overdue. Maybe if we can rile him up with Lounds or get enough- just enough to approve a warrant of arrest for Will Graham- we can incite him to get desperate too.”

“A warrant of arrest? On what grounds?” Hannibal asked, knowing that there was still nothing substantial to be found. Too early in the investigation and the slow trod of bureaucracy to have found anything truly incriminating.

“We’re hoping there’s something to be found about the case of the missing kid from his school. Miriam is back at the office pouring over the reports and statements the Lynchburg police faxed over. Both Will and Noah were reported to have left the party at the same time and he lied about his alibi.” His eyes were gleaming, any pervading exhaustion chased away with the hope of a lead to latch onto. An end that had not been tied up well enough, an impulsive act that would be Will’s undoing. “If we can get him on that, and I think we can, we can get a search warrant, arrest him for an investigation. See what other skeletons he has in the closet. And in the meantime, if we can leverage that against the Ripper...we might have ourselves a two for one deal.”

Hannibal was quiet for a long time, arms folding over his chest as he considered the words. It was a fetid image, the thought of Will with his hands clasped behind his back, slim wrists linked with metal. Even more fetid was the thought of him behind the iron bars of a cell, too far for Hannibal’s touch. Crimes not so severe or deranged enough to earn him a private room for the safety of others, forced to share the same space as some miscreant. The same beast with claws and fangs within his chest grew more ferocious at such an image. Not quite protectiveness- as Will didn’t require such- so much as it was a possessiveness. The desire to hold close what was his and tear apart those who might pry him from his grasp. The same sentiment he had promised Will only hours before. _I would kill for you._

What was a vow to Will was a threat to others.

“Well, it sounds like a plan with many moving pieces. I hope we don’t find ourselves crushed in its machinations,” he finally spoke, the threat that lurked in the rounded bellies of the vowels unnoticed by the two profilers.

The conversation turned pragmatic then. Short and clipped sentences to discuss the plan for the day, sentiments spared that William Graham would soon reach out once his son had returned home. That Lounds’s hunger for a soundbite would be greater than the innate need for survival and the promise to question Chilton and others to sort out the initial leak in the first place. A blessing in disguise, Jack had called it, even as the words were spoken through bared and gritted teeth.

Hannibal was still leaning against the counter- in front of the sink- when Jack shuffled his weight awkwardly from side to side, as if suddenly aware of his intrusion on a weekend morning. He averted his gaze, his words flustered as he said, “I was going to ask if you wanted a ride to Quantico since we’re already here but you’d probably like to finish up your morning.” He glanced once at Hannibal only to look away, lips pinched as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

Hannibal tilted his head to the side, narrowing his gaze at the sudden shift in his countenance, though he didn’t remark on it. “It would be appreciated, yes. I can be there in two hours. I’m sure by then William Graham would have called you back with his son’s whereabouts and we can begin the day.”

“Excellent. I’ll leave you to it,” he said, his smile forced and quick to diminish as he tipped his head in Hannibal’s direction. “I’ll be in the car,” he said to Alana as he traipsed past her, the sound of the front door opening and closing piercing through the silence only seconds later.

“Sorry to intrude on you,” Alana said, her words softened and quiet in the absence of Jack’s belligerent presence, moving around the island counter to deposit the two empty mugs beside the sink. Hannibal twisted around, flicking the faucet on and reaching for the sponge. “You know how he gets with the Ripper. There was no stopping him from getting in that car when you didn’t answer.”

He twisted to offer her a grin, tipping his head forward. “I am always happy to assist.”

  
“Still...there was a reason you didn’t answer your phone. You were ugh...having a good morning.” She smiled, pink blossoming across her cheeks as she ducked her head. She rose a hand, waving it in a loose flourish in the direction of the dishes still set out on the counter to dry from the evening before, too dampened to set away as he had the others. Two wine glasses resting upside-down, the dish-mat beneath them sodden. She used the same hand to push a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Ah,” he said, chuckling softly as he finished rinsing the suds from the mugs and set them on the mat as well. Understanding flooded over him, and his lips twitched into a slight smirk. He shut off the faucet, wiping his hands on the small towel. “Do you suppose Jack noticed?”

She laughed, a bright and tinkling sound that she tried to stopper away, pressing a palm against her mouth to muffle the noise. “If not that, he certainly noticed-” she began, her words tapering off as she glanced away and pointed to her own neck, clearing her throat.

He reached up, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin- still red, bruised from Will’s vicious assault on his throat. The inflamed edges of the bite barely visible from beneath the collar of his robe but obvious in what it was.

He glanced away, as though embarrassed by the discovery. But how could he be? There was no room for something as base and needless as humiliation, his chest congested with pride and unrestrained delight. Delight at having been marked in such a way, by having such a mark seen by others. The debauchery of the evening before put on display, realized by the perception of others, and once more he was only disheartened to know that his own marks would go unseen. That the evidence of his own passion would be well hidden beneath Will’s usual armor of cotton tee-shirts and worn flannel button-ups.

He laid his palm flat against the juncture of his neck, obscuring the mark from view. “Forgive me. It was a rather abrupt awakening.”

Alana shook her head, dark trusses fluttering over her shoulders with the gesture. “So...do I get to meet her or do you plan on hiding her from us forever?”

It was an amusing request, the smile he offered her genuine in nature at the thought. She was coquettish, giddy in the manner of someone who just stumbled into gossip they were eager to sink their teeth into yet he imagined her joy would be short-lived. Her grin slipping into a gape of apprehension before twisting into a frown- disapproval and perhaps even anger, repulsion settling into the severe lines that would crease into her flesh.

Her mood would sour and curdle if she knew the truth, that none other than Will Graham had been the one to mark him. Her former patient, so favored and coddled. Forever remaining a child in her mind, suspended in a time when he had yet to know the feel of organs pulsing beneath his touch. When he was still unfamiliar with the taste of flesh as he masticated it between his teeth, straightened by the tight pull of wires so often viewed as a sign of youth.

She was simply too swayed by the lush curls and large, doleful eyes. Unable to reconcile the boy who once sobbed in her office at the thoughts that contorted in his diseased brain with the man who reveled in them. The suspect in a murder investigation, with teeth sharp enough to break skin and taste blood.

An amusing thought that would never flourish, his self-preservation more demanding than ever now that such a tempting future sat on the edges of his life. He tucked the thoughts away, his expression a cross between bashful and teasing as he said, “a gentleman never kisses and tell.”

She hummed, sighing as she pushed herself away from the counter. She sauntered through the kitchen, heading toward the adjoining hallway. “I can respect that. I guess I just need something a little cheerful to get by right now, even if it’s vicarious cheer. Something not to do with Will or the Ripper,” she said, her words threaded with exhaustion and entirely unaware of the exquisite irony in the statement. Her face was sullen as she turned back to him, gray eyes muddied. “I really hope Jack is wrong about this. All of it.”

“He may be. It’s still too early to tell and you know as well as I do that it’s Will’s loose association with the Ripper that has set him on such a trajectory. His plan with Lounds is risky, but I’m certain it will pass without incident and when it does, he’ll be forced to admit that he’s seeing alliances that aren’t there and will reconsider the investigation,” he assured, weaving around the island to stand beside her. He settled a hand on the small of her back, guiding her gently through the hallway and toward the front door. “Though he would then set his sights once more on Abigail.”

“Ugh, Abigail,” she muttered, pressing the heel of her palm against her right eye and rubbing it thoughtfully. “I should try to visit her today. Or tomorrow. See how she’s feeling with the article.” She paused, hesitating on the words before adding, “maybe show her a few pictures and see if Will’s catches her eye. She was there at the same school event after all…”

His stiffened at the suggestion, the hand pressing more firmly against her spine as he said, “there’s merit to the idea. But do you truly think it wise to subject yourself to such a task? I know you have a fondness for Will.”

“And?” she retorted, quirking a brow. “My fondness isn’t so expansive that it would let me turn a blind eye to his crimes.” Her eyes widened, head reeling backward as she blinked rapidly, slapping her mouth closed before letting it drop open. “ _Alleged_ crimes,” she corrected as if doing so might ease the damage already leveled by the words.

“Alleged,” he agreed, nodding serenely. “Well, at least allow me to accompany you when you do. I think we’ve both noticed Abigail has an inclination to manipulate and it would be best to have several parties there to observe her for such.”

She considered him, shoulders sagging in relief at the offer. “I would appreciate it. Thank you, Hannibal.”

He grinned, reaching between them to grasp the doorknob and twisting it, pushing the door open. Jack was already seated in the car, the engine idling with a low purr, a cellphone pressed to his ear as he chatted. “As I said, Alana, I will always assist- you need only ask.”

They parted ways, Alana smiling demurely as she apologized to him once more for interrupting his morning. It did little to soothe his frayed nerves, knowing Will would have to leave shortly before Jack’s panic ratcheted to a fever pitch. Though, he supposed if he was being fair, the morning had not lost all its promises- merely blossoming into something other. Opportunities unfurling for him to consider as he readied for the day.

He knew of Jack’s ill-thought out scheme, a springboard for him to toy with as he desired. He didn’t truly believe Chilton to be the leak- a barbed history between the two that Chilton’s still smarting ego wouldn’t easily relent for his own cooperation- but it was the first of many far more weighted suspicions to be placed upon him. The beginning shadow of doubt Jack might cast on him.

The incendiary article and Alana’s idea to approach were Abigail were larger obstacles than he cared to admit, but ones he was sure he could clear with all the grace he bestowed. Lounds was a cockroach, a vermin that could be dealt with easily enough once her uses had been extinguished. And Abigail…

Well, Abigail owed him quite a debt, now didn’t she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Will and Hannibal come up with a few plans of their own, Will returns home.


	24. Speculation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between chapters. I am but a humble etch-a-sketch board and God is an overzealous two-year-old just shaking me up. Things have been particularly rough lately, and keeping up with posting/interaction has been a pretty difficult task to accommodate.  
> Also, I know I'm behind on responding to comments and I'm so sorry! I swear I will catch up, but in the meantime, I adore and appreciate each and every one so much- you have no idea! You guys are truly wonderful <3
> 
> Hopefully, next year will be kinder to us all.

> _**FBI BRINGS IN NEW SUSPECT FOR THE SHRIKE MURDER** _
> 
> _**Will Graham is being looked at as a person of interest in the violent death of serial killer, Garrett Jacob Hobbs- And this isn’t the first time he’s bared such a title.** _
> 
> _The abductions orchestrated by the Minnesota Shrike- recently revealed to be the late Garrett Jacob Hobbs after his daughter confessed to her assistance in the crimes- had plagued the Central United States for years before coming to an abrupt but welcomed end. A case that was mislead and mishandled by the FBI’s elite Behavioral Analysis Unit. Helmed by the head of the Unit, Supervisory Special Agent Jack Crawford, they were unable to name a formal suspect in the series of abductions and assumed murders, the case moving back and forth between active investigations and cold case- seemingly unable to even pinpoint whether or not the UNSUB (Unknown Subject) was still active and a threat._
> 
> _The case would be moved to cold case shortly after the gruesome murder of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, a separate investigation which has been formally reopened and passed over to the same unit unable to find Hobbs to begin with. Though it seems the FBI, or more specifically, Agent Crawford, have learned from the mistakes of the past that allowed Hobbs to act unheeded and have already moved on a lead suspect in the case. And this isn’t his first time under suspicion._
> 
> _An unnamed source close to the investigation has revealed that Agent Crawford has shifted his focus from Hobbs’s surviving daughter, twenty-one year-old Abigail Hobbs, and is looking at Virginia resident twenty year-old William Graham Junior as a person of interest. Initially brought under suspicion after a history of violent assaults and attending the same campus event that would mark Hobbs’s last evening, the circumstances around the young man have only grown more incriminating._
> 
> _Graham was brought to Quantico for questioning, fresh off the heels of another investigation at his college campus in Lynchburg where the search for twenty-one year-old Noah Heffernan is still underway- the student last seen attending the same party that Graham himself is reported to have made an abrupt exit from._
> 
> _One might call the entanglement of one investigation a misunderstanding; the second a misfortune._
> 
> _But the third would give anyone pause, even the seemingly diffident BAU. Though it’s precisely the third- or rather, Graham’s first- investigation that has been the source of such speculation among the halls of the FBI._
> 
> _Why, you may ask?_
> 
> _Graham is by no means unfamiliar to being the subject of articles, a medical curiosity that has seen him the focus to no less than sixteen published studies- the majority of which were written by the late Doctor Donald Sutcliffe. The victim of our own Chesapeake Ripper and, according to my undisclosed source, the receiver of threats made by a young Graham. Threats concerning enough that in the early hours of Sutcliffe's disappearance, before being discovered on display, Graham was brought in for questioning. Sutcliffe’s murder was eventually credited to the Chesapeake Bay’s most notorious resident, though the FBI isn’t so convinced that it absolves Graham entirely._
> 
> _Sources have revealed that despite the murder being a near textbook case of any other Ripper kill, that Graham had especially good motive for wanting his long-time doctor dead._
> 
> _What motive could a then-teenager have? Perhaps it was simply the culmination of a long history of documented violent behavior. Perhaps the articles written on his unique disorder were too personal for his liking. Or perhaps the motive is far more sinister._
> 
> _Long-time readers of TattleCrime may recall that two years after his murder, we broke a startling exposé on the skeletons in the late Doctor’s closet ( Link). Or rather, on the photographs found in his home office, where the renowned neurosurgeon stored child pornography- making his long-term research on the subject of one uniquely disordered child seem nefarious- and perhaps even a viable motive for murder. (Disclaimer: Despite this, no formal statements have been made in regard to his conduct, and no victims have come forward to accuse him post-humously of inappropriate attention. TattleCrime is making no claims on the behalf of the FBI or any individual and is simply reporting information relevant to the case)_
> 
> _While the investigation is remaining tight-lipped on the leaps in their judgment, Crawford seems to believe that Sutcliffe’s death and Graham’s overlap with several violent crimes are less a coincidence than the doe-eyed college student would like you to think. In fact, he seems to think that Graham may just be the key to finding the elusive serial killer who has plagued our community for so long._
> 
> _Is this an incredulous theory chased by a team desperately grasping at straws? Or have they, after years of idling, finally begun to pick at the house of cards that for so long have been held in the Chesapeake Ripper's favor? The one thing we can be certain of is that TattleCrime will be following the story closely._

Will stared at the screen of the tablet for too long, the words a blurred impression in his mind’s eyes. Remaining in his vision even as he pinched his lids so tightly together creases formed, the accusatory words etched within the folds of his brain. Humiliation colored his cheeks yet he could not stop himself from repeating the motions over and over again, finger flicking down and down before scrolling to the top. A repetitive and destructive thing.

He would pause, linger on the photos spread sporadically throughout the article. A photo of him from the previous day, face still blotchy with tears as he trod down the steps of the FBI building, his father a firm fixture by his side. The image was clear despite the rain, his hair wet strands that clung to his face, sweater sodden.

_Scroll, scroll._

A family photo of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, his arms slung across his late wife’s shoulders and his hand curled around Abigail’s upper arm. All bright smiles, the picture of suburban idealism. The meat digesting in their bellies and nestled in the crowns of their white teeth. Crimes revealed beneath the damning glow of a black light and luminol spray, blood blossoming across their skins with the reveal.

_Scroll, scroll._

A photo of Noah. A school photo, the football jersey draping loosely over the sturdy gear protecting his chest and shoulders. His helmet was tucked beneath his arm, lips pulling away in a toothless grin. All-American, so generic an image it might have made Will roll his eyes if they weren’t so trained on the screen. Too committed to tracing the outline of his form, the words framing him with their blocks of text.

_Scroll, scroll._

He lingered the longest on the final photo; another family portrait though this time it was Donald Sutcliffe sitting at the head of it, his wife sat beside him. Their two children that Will remembered in shadows from the few barbecues his father had dragged him to when the invite came. Parties where he attempted to make himself scarce, finding a quiet room in the house- larger and more opulent than his own, though not the gallery that was Hannibal’s- and read whatever book he brought with him. Such a rounded out enough metaphor that Will felt a wave of nausea at the thought, his throat constricting. There was no need for poetry to describe the monster beneath the facade when it sat so plainly before him.

It seemed unfair. Professional photos trailing behind his own candid shot, unaware that a camera had even flashed against him. Too distracted by the feeling of rain saturating his clothes and the burn of tears stinging his eyes. He looked pathetic, a hunched over criminal retreating from the doors of the FBI, the crest frosting the glass doors behind them so there was no uncertainty about where they were exiting.

How unfair to follow a thing with such photos; football stars and loving family men- staged and propped and a _lie._ Glossy images that concealed the ferocious monsters within; as if deserving more honor in death than those they harmed were given in life. It felt cruel, calculating in a way he couldn’t fully name but simmered within him. Carefully chosen photos forming a jarring contrast to his own less than flattering one.

A contrived bias, and his frown deepened as the screen crawled downward to the comment section. Arm-chair detectives chiming in on the unfurling case, condemning him on nothing more than Lounds’s words. Worse still were the comments made by those who claimed to know him. Classmates- former and current- accusing him of the crimes, of having always been weird and _strange_. Always a danger to himself and others and it had only been a matter of time before he finally snapped.

There were a few rising to his defense but the defense was almost as awful as the condemnation. Decrying him as simply _too sweet._ Too soft. A kicked puppy, small and vulnerable; deserving of their pity rather than their speculation.

His anger gripped him, a stranglehold that would not relent. Even when the door clicked open with Hannibal’s entrance- and the reminder that he had, technically, been snooping and wasn’t meant to possess the tablet in the first place- he could not summon the shame or contrition at having gone through his belongings. The tablet shook in his grasp, eyes remaining on the screen as footsteps padded across the floor.

He did not look up even as Hannibal came to a stop before him, the dark blue of his robe edging his vision.

Hannibal was quiet a moment, his voice soft when he finally said, “Ah. I see you’ve read it already.”

Had that been the subject of Crawford’s visit? The very article that sat hot in his hands, incendiary and unkind?

He nodded, a beat passing between them before Hannibal asked, “Is it so bad?”

“She told everyone,” he said, choking on the admission and the ache in his throat that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He did not need to offer specifics for Hannibal to know, to read the words unsaid. He swallowed against them, amending the statement with, “Or she may as well have. More speculation than anything but…”

“But that was all she needed to say,” Hannibal finished for him. Will nodded once more, pinching his lips as he finally dragged his gaze up to find Hannibal’s own, the bourbon-colored eyes narrowed in consideration. They held the gaze for several long seconds before it broke, Hannibal reaching between them to pry the tablet from his hands. He released his hold easily, and it was set down on the bedside table with a dull thunk. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Will scoffed, lips pulling back to reveal his teeth with the pull of his snarl, the words spat like venom from his tongue. “I’m _furious_. It just...she shouldn’t...she shouldn’t be allowed to…” he growled, stumbling over his words. His anger too great to surmount, to steady his heightening voice over the erratic thrum of his heart. He pressed his palm against his brow, dragging it down his face as though he might pull with it the surge of his emotions. Relieve the tension that made his muscles pull taut and his fist clench at his side with the simple motion.

He inhaled, nostrils flaring as his lungs filled and he held the breath for a moment too long before releasing it in an exhale. “She shouldn’t be allowed to just _write_ stuff like that. Whatever she wants without any regard…”

His words tapered, trailing off as his shoulders slumped. Hannibal was still regarding him with a look of neutrality, eyes narrowed in his ruminations and his face held in the firm and unwavering mask. Sturdy where Will felt destabilized and he huffed out a lungful of stagnant air.

When he next spoke, it was in a deflated voice, the words mumbled from between his pouting lips. “And to _justify_ it as newsworthy like she’s doing a social service by telling the whole world…” There was a break in his words, hitching over the lump in his throat that he hastily tried to swallow, choking out one final condemnation. “It’s _tasteless.”_

Hannibal did not speak right away, allowing his gaze to linger on Will’s face. Calculating, as if working through a particularly challenging riddle etched within the hollows of his cheeks. “Jack intends to play into her tastelessness. He hopes that bad press against you will incite the Ripper to misstep,” he finally said, the moment settling between them as Will deciphered the meaning of the words, both spoken and implied.

“So she’s...just going to keep writing them? Unless you do something?” he asked, brows raising so that they disappeared behind the curls brushing over his forehead- still tangled and disheveled from sleep.

“That is what Jack would like, yes,” he said, nodding his head once in affirmation. He blinked then, head tipping curiously to the side as he asked, “Unless you would like me to do something?”

“No,” he said hastily, the curt response falling so quickly from his lips it was more a punctuation mark to Hannibal’s question than an answer. He licked his lips, lowering his voice from the thready pitch of his manic rage to add, “At least, not without me. I want to help.”

Hannibal’s mouth twitched- the barest flicker of motion before pinching into a flat line. “You want to kill her? For our sounder?”

“Yes. Is that okay?”

He arched a brow. “It will send a definitive message to Jack. Are you certain that’s the message you’d like to send so soon?”

Will glanced sidelong at the question, lower lip tugged between his teeth as he chewed nervously on the delicate flesh. A decision not to be made impulsively, as he was want to do. One that should be considered with careful scrutiny, from each angle and curve of its conception.

Jack was hoping for a response from the Ripper, a link to further strengthen his otherwise tentative tethering between Will Graham and the elusive, dangerous serial killer. Killing Lounds and displaying her with all the fanfare and theatrics expected of a tableau would cinch the tie of his theory, the case dissolving and unraveling rapidly between them. A game of chase between the two entities that would end with a Ripper and his accomplice behind the bars of a prison cell; he could only hope that he and Hannibal would be left to stand on the opposite side of it. That the stiff and starched jumpsuit would be draped over another in his place.

Objectively, he knew it to be foolish. A risk not worth taking, amputating what little time they had in preparation into even smaller segments.

But he hesitated on the answer he knew to be the right one, the sharpened tips of his teeth breaking the tissue of his lip. Copper filled his mouth, the slight sting as saliva and torn flesh met yet he ignored it all. Thoughts distracted by the alluring promise dangled before him.

Ideally, the case would be closed with the issue of an apology from the FBI to Will and the good doctor. Apologies for such suspicion and all the consequences that came with it. Will would no longer be a conspirator and a murderer. Simply an innocent young man caught up in a plan brought to ruins and he wanted that. Preferred it to a life of imprisonment yet it would come at a price. The sacrifice of being known as the one who brought the Chesapeake Ripper to his knees in exaltation.

There was a thrill to it, an exhilaration in the world seeing him as the rarity he was. The only one capable of being loved and adored by such a monster. The offering of Lounds’s flayed flesh a declaration to the world, a love letter written for Will so that all could see him for what he was, if only for a moment. See him as the man who tamed the monster.

“Yeah. I’m sure,” he answered, releasing his lip from between his teeth, tongue darting out to lap at the slow trickle of blood. “I want them to know.”

Hannibal's eyes gleamed, flicking down to follow the tracing of his tongue. “That you own me,” Hannibal said, his tone nonchalant. Unbothered by Will’s desire to expose him and perhaps even delighted by the idea himself, the slight tipping of his lips in a small smile, eyes bright with the promise of such a game. Confirming Jack’s suspicions, toeing dangerously close to the thin line. A cliff he could dangle beside precariously, held aloft only by the whims of the wind that might push and pull against him.

“Are you alright with that? With letting me kill her? With letting the whole world know that the Ripper belongs to me? Even if only for a little?” Will asked, his own voice unfamiliar to himself. Lower and commanding, firm despite the quiet tones.

Hannibal’s smile broadened as he tipped forward at his waist, lowering himself to be face-to-face with Will from where he sat on the bed. One hand reached out, bracing himself against the mattress beside Will’s hip, the other settling against the contours of his face. It was warm and soft, the skin free of callouses despite all the creation and destruction his hands were capable of, and Will leaned into it, head twisting so his lips brushed against Hannibal’s palm. “I adore watching you kill. Twice now I’ve missed out on witnessing you tear another apart. I will not be so deprived again. As for the other piece...I can think of no better declaration before putting the identity to rest, my darling.”

Warmth blossomed over his face and down the column of his neck at the pet name, uncertain of how to act. He never cared much for such monikers, finding them annoying at best and condescending at worst. Matthew in particular had an affinity for such terms and perhaps that was where his dislike of them was bred, an association he could not shake.

Yet, he keened at the word as it fell from Hannibal’s lips, rubbing his face further against the warm palm before he was even aware he was doing so.

Hannibal chuckled, fingers stroking down the arch of his cheekbone as he lowered himself more. Lips parted, brushing against Will’s own though they simply lingered. Never enough pressure to be considered a kiss as he pressed the words against his mouth. “I love you, Will.”

Will hesitated on the declaration, his breath catching in his throat. It was the first time Hannibal had said the words to him, more direct than his confirmation of such. They seared in his brain, captured within the folds and held in suspension. Tapering like an echo spoken in a too vast cavern or the resonating thrum of an instrument held on a note. Words Will was uncertain that he could return but he was mercifully saved from doing so when Hannibal pressed his lips forward more ardently, a proper and urging kiss.

Will sighed into it, arms rising from his side to wind around Hannibal’s neck. He leaned back until he was pressed against the bed, pulling the older man down with him- hands shooting out to catch himself. He held his weight up, making certain not to crowd Will as their lips continued to move against each other. Never becoming more passionate, more hungry and demanding. It remained languid, as though reveling in the taste of each other. The feel of soft lips against chapped and bitten ones.

Taking simple delight in the other without an expectation of more.

Will took the time to explore Hannibal at his leisure, familiarizing himself with the more intimate touches they had begun to share. It was all still so new, disorienting if he allowed himself to think of it rather than lose himself in the moment. One hand slid down, smoothing across the strained shoulders. Firm and strong, more toned than they should be for a seemingly sedentary psychiatrist. He traced the curve of his throat, cupping his hand against Hannibal’s jaw and sweeping his fingers across his face.

Hannibal's stubble prickled against the calloused fingers, a jarring sensation that gave Will pause. So different from the smooth faces of his previous girlfriends; even Matthew’s face had been smooth- too young to have more than the sparse hair that always grew in patchy, leaving him with no choice but to shave what little he had. Yet, he found he enjoyed the feel of it beneath his touch- against his own chin. A coarse texture, rough and less polished than the rest of him. He wondered what it might feel like if it was fuller- what Hannibal might look like, ash-blond facial hair threaded with gray.

Hannibal was the first to break from the kiss, not quite pulling away as he twisted his head to the side, kissing the palm that cupped his jaw. “While I want nothing more than to spend the day with you tangled in my sheets, I’m afraid we’re on a timeline. Your father was told to contact Jack to bring you in for questioning when you return home. And Jack’s expecting me in Quantico.” Will groaned at the words, the sudden drag back into reality. Hannibal looked at him from the corner of his eyes, his face still angled so his mouth was pressed to Will’s hand. “He’s invited Lounds to come up as well. His hope is to strike a deal with her to keep you in her headlines.”

Will snorted, reluctantly dropping his arms to flop on the mattress as Hannibal stood, unwinding the band of his bathrobe and shrugging it off. He rose, propping himself up on his elbows. “When are we going to kill her? The sooner we do it, the sooner they’ll figure it out,” he said, averting his gaze as Hannibal began to undress instinctively. Several seconds crawled forward before he forced himself to look back, knowing his modesty was ridiculous in light of the circumstances.

“Tonight,” Hannibal answered, draping the discarded robe on a hook within the bathroom, his voice distorted as it bounced off the tiled wall. 

Will blinked at the single word, scrambling up to a clumsy rise as Hannibal reemerged. “That early?” he asked, brows rising incredulously.

“Yes,” he said, striding through the room and disappearing into the walk-in closet, Will following after him. He stood in the doorway, wringing his fingers together as he watched Hannibal sift through the neatly arranged wardrobe, wearing only his pajama bottoms. He grasped onto the sleeve of a suit jacket- one with a particularly egregious pattern that Will might have remarked on if he were less flooded with adrenaline.

Tonight. It seemed so early, a hastening of a plan coming to fruition. “Agent Lass is investigating Noah’s disappearance and looking for a link to you. If we wait too long, Jack might have enough for an arrest. At least this way we can take control.”

His teeth dug into his lower lip, picking at the chewed up skin. He tasted iron, the bitter tang of his own blood. He tried not to linger on the words pressed between the tentative facets of Hannibal's plan. On the word _arrest_ even as his tongue tapped the syllables against the roof of his mouth. It tasted as acrid as his blood and he choked on the feel of his heart in his throat. He knew Noah was the weak link that would form the chain linking the cuffs to his wrist. A crime that would require more obfuscation than the others to fall into place, a piece to a puzzle that needed to be trimmed to fit within the patchwork picture made by their hand.

Yet, Hannibal was _right_. Definitive action by the Ripper would hinder Lass more than the slow march of an investigation as she was pulled away from Noah's case to Lounds's. Clipping one timeline short while hastening another, a delicate balancing act that perhaps no one other than Hannibal was capable of.

There was still the matter of a few details, though, and Will furrowed his brow. “But how? My dad will be home.”

“I have something you can give him. A fast-acting barbiturate. Stronger than what you’ve used in the past,” Hannibal said, draping his chosen outfit for the day down on a chair set within the corner of the closet. “I’ll pick you up at your home. Will nine be alright?”

Will hesitated a moment before offering a jerky nod. It seemed perverse, a voice within his skull snorting derisively at the simple plans laid out so casually. _A date_ , he thought mockingly, his sardonic and cruel humor twisting the moment. He felt the fracture of the cognitive dissonance as though it were a visceral thing, romanticizing the violence to come. 

“Excellent,” he said, sliding out of his trousers. As shameless in his nudity as he was in all aspects of his indulgences.

Though there wasn’t anything shameful about his naked form, Will supposed, eyes flicking down in appraisal before realizing how blatant he was being.

He blushed, cheeks warm in fresh peels of embarrassment, and he ducked his head before Hannibal could see the color seeping into his flesh.

He darted from the room, mumbling something about waiting for him downstairs as he disappeared down the hall.

~x~

William turned his phone off with a grunt, slamming the device down on the table before him with more force than necessary, satisfied by the resonating _thunk_ as it collided. He propped his elbow on the table, hunching forward and burying his face in the palm of his hands.

He never slept well, a habit that was forged in his son’s tumultuous childhood and never quite left. But even the few hours of sleep he typically managed evaded him last night, his nerves in tatters and his mind too loud. Too restless to remain in bed and he found himself working in the boathouse until the sky was painted with the colors of dusk. Oranges and pinks streaking across the horizon and chasing away the stars.

A crooked part of him felt that he should have anticipated this moment. The proverbial shoe dropping, an inevitability that he had foolishly thought might never come.

How naive he was to think that the troubles with Will had come to an end.

Their relationship in the past few years had been _good_. The resentment and animosity between them smoothing out like wrinkles in a garment. It had been pleasant, having his son return to him after so long. Seeing the boy he once knew a lifetime ago return to him in increments. Becoming less brittle, less jagged as he eased into his own skin.

It was _unfair_. He was supposed to be moving forward, not dragged back into such suspicions. And for what? Because of an illness he could not help? Because he had been hurt so greatly that for a moment he had wanted to hurt others? Always crucified for the sins of another, it seemed.

William wasn’t stupid, though, as ignorant and blind as he could be. He _knew_ it was bad. Jack Crawford seemed to think he found his killer and it would not be as easy as it was when Sutcliffe was killed. There would be no one else to claim responsibility for such crimes- they weren’t looking for someone else. They were looking at _Will_ , at all the lines tracing between him and these fixed points.

They had moved past the suspect phase of the investigation, he knew.

Now they were looking for _evidence._

And then that awful _article-_

His lip curled in disgust at the memory of the text, running a hand down his face as though he might slide a mask off his visage. A lawyer sat somewhere on his to-do list, one who specialized in libel and defamation cases. It seemed paltry when stacked against everything else but he wasn’t ready to strike it from the list just yet.

The morning had been spent fielding calls from clients- a damning thing it was, his business bearing the very same name that was now plastered across the news in the investigation of such brutal crimes. Calls from distant relatives who hadn’t bothered to talk in years suddenly reaching for the phone with morbid curiosity. It might have been funny; such tragedies and scintillating news had a way of inspiring conversation, rebuilding bridges that would crumble when exposed to the harsh elements of the world.

He found his humor failing him though, displaced by something cold and unyielding. He let each call go to voicemail.

He rose from the table with a sigh, eyes glancing to the clock as he ambled over to the sink. He tried calling Will several times, only for each call to come to a clipped end after a single ring. His phone was dead or turned off.

He knew his son well enough to not panic immediately, knowing his preference for avoidance and silence. But the morning was dragging steadily onward and it was getting harder to keep the bubble of anxiety at bay.

The FBI was waiting, no doubt growing firmer in their suspicions as each hour passed without a word from him.

The same cruel part of him that had expected the peace to come to an end wondered if Will had simply...run.

Whether from fear of the confrontation or from something worse- something William didn’t dare name- he was unsure.

He could see the appeal in it. To just...move on from a life that seemed hellbent on flaying him at each angle and he knew he couldn’t fault Will if he had done just that. Though he hoped he hadn’t, knowing how guilty it would make him look. They could argue everything else, find a good enough lawyer that would not be intimidated by Will’s history if it got that far. But it would be hard to argue against that, Will’s disappearance as good as a confession in the eyes of Jack Crawford.

Unbidden, the thought of a nationwide manhunt struck him, his hand stilling as he set his mug in the sink. The thought of his son entangled in any criminal investigation soured his stomach, but there was something particularly fetid about that. His portrait and name flashed across the news, his plates and car broadcast through APB’s.

His mind was spiraling, leaping to things that had not happened yet and he exhaled a sigh of relief so heavy his whole chest sunk when he heard the sound of the front door opening- eclipsed by the riot of paws thundering through the home. Too well trained to bark at visitors, the dogs could hardly help a few excited whines and yaps that left their mouth at the sight of the young man, and William smiled as he left the kitchen, seeing only the crown of curls as Will knelt down to greet each one.

“You had me worried,” he said, drawing Will’s attention.

His backpack sat at his feet, dropped there when he fell to his knees. He gripped it once more as he stood, quirking a brow. “Did you think I ran?” His tone was level, no animosity or betrayal spiking the question. 

“A little,” he answered honestly.

Will pursed his lips, surprised perhaps by the truth in the statement before stepping past the dogs and into the home. “I turned my phone off. I just wanted some quiet before everything got...you know,” he muttered, tossing the bag onto the couch.

“I know,” William said, eyes slanting to glance around the living room. A thin layer of dust coated most surfaces, the space largely unbothered since Will left for college. He tended to make the same routine haunts- rising from his bedroom to the kitchen for coffee and to feed the dogs before departing to the garage or boathouse. When he returned, it was usually too late in the evening to do anything more than eat a quick and quiet dinner over the sink before retiring to bed.

How quickly the house had turned into such vacancy.

“Agent Crawford called this morning. He told me to let him know when you finally get home. He wants us to go back in for more questions,” he said, wincing with guilt as Will slumped his shoulders, teeth gritted around a sigh. The sting of the last visit still a sharp and incessant thing he was sure, raw and mangled. He recalled the sight of his face, mottled with tears and the words that had been wretched from his tongue and closed his eyes against the memory.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to pull Will from this mess. To protect him from the invasive questions and the painful things they ushered in.

It ached knowing he couldn’t. Yet another failure in his attempt to guard his son and he pinched the bridge of his nose. His nostrils flared on the steadying breath he took, lips parting on the exhale. “He can wait a little longer though, if you want to take the time to settle in,” he said, rolling his shoulder as his hand dropped to his side. “Unpack your bags, take a shower. Maybe grab something to eat if you haven’t.”

Will glanced at him, his appreciation writ on his face as he gave a slow nod. “Yeah, I think I’d like a little bit of time to just…” his voice tapered, waving his hand through the air in a flourish. “I could use a shower.”

“Alright. I’ll call him in like an hour then. That should you give enough time, right?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Will agreed, kicking his shoes off and grabbing his backpack once more as he trudged toward the stairs. He hesitated on the first step, fingers curling over the newel of the stairs. He didn’t look at William, his gaze instead focused ahead of him as he asked in a despondent, “are you going to ask me if I did it?”

He didn't answer immediately, head tipping to the side at the question. He anticipated the question- had asked himself the same thing in a hundred different ways as he bent over the mechanical guts of a boat, hands stained with grease and dried blood from where the metal dragged over his skin. The images of the photos from the crimes his son was accused of sat in his mind like a tumor, all high-resolution and technicolor. It saturated- _rotted_ \- in the gray matter.

Even when Will was at his most troubled- when the thought of him held behind locked doors and sedated into compliancy felt more like reality than the nightmares they once were- he had never thought him capable of such brutality. 

And yet...

"No," he answered with finality, curtailing his own thoughts before they could spiral and become traitorous. There wasn't room in his head for such unfounded suspicions, already too cluttered with everything else.

“Thank you,” Will said before darting up the stairs, each step croaking with his ascent.

William lingered, staring into the space his son occupied long after he parted from him.

Had Will seen the article yet? Or, at the very least, had he heard of it? He didn’t have it in him to ask, to shatter the little respite he had before they would once more find themselves within the FBI. He would mention it as they drove, so he was at least prepared should Crawford fall back to his dirty tactics of the night before. But not before then.

He could, at the very least, protect him from that.

If only for an hour.

~x~

Steam filled the bathroom, the air heavy and moist. Each breath was a struggle, Will’s lungs fighting to expand. Water pelted against him, the shower pressure more sluggish than the showers in his campus which made each drop of water feel like a blade. A shard of metal that slivered beneath his skin.

This shower was more pleasant, a massage that beat against his tautly pulled muscles, beads slipping down the contours of his form. His head bowed beneath the pulsing water, damp locks clinging flat to his skin. He considered the trail dotting his own chest, lips parting at the sight of so many pink bruises marring his pale flesh. He rose a hand, bringing it to his collar bone where he extended a finger and pressed it against the petal of a bruise.

It did not ache, too superficial to bring with it any real pain. Simply the memory of teeth sinking into his skin and the rapid suction of a hungry mouth consuming him whole. He walked his hand down his chest, pressing a finger into each bruise in his descent. He hated being marked by another, a tangible memory to the touches of another offered in private. Too many nights spent squirming away when the press of a mouth became too earnest and he shifted to avoid the marks that would linger for days.

How strange then, that the marks impressed upon him from Hannibal were met with nothing short of awe. A delectable sort of pride surging within his chest at the sight of them. A constellation of kisses embedded in his flesh.

The evening had felt more like a dream than reality. Replaying within his head like a film reel that was foreign in his own mind. Disembodied, his consciousness removed from his form.

There was a moment where he could pretend that the world outside of Hannibal’s home had ceased to exist. The investigation and the mounting evidence against him sunk into the grainy notes of radio static- crackling and hazy. The world outside of the glass he and Hannibal lived within- a suspended ornament- was nebulous, calcified in time.

It was not an unpleasant thing, living on a separate plane.

Was that would it would feel like, leaving with Hannibal, bringing nothing of their former lives but each other?

The thought had been a tempting one- even before their relationship had hastened into something less definable. But a sort of apprehension had muddled it, mellowed in the fear of such a commitment. That once Hannibal had him in such a way he would not relent his hold and he was uncertain he would want to be bound by such an oppressive clasp.

The uncertainty was beginning to wane, though.

He had sampled Hannibal’s love for him and now he hungered for more.

Hungered for a home that was all their own, where mornings would go uninterrupted. No Jack Crawfords to bang on their door or unsavory articles to drag him without warning into the tangled mess of his life.

It was so easy to envision. Lazy mornings spent wound in Hannibal’s arms before they would reluctantly rise for breakfast. A proper one, not the hurried one Hannibal prepared for them before Will left him for his drive. It was delicious, of course- but Will preferred to sit down with Hannibal, bites taken between pauses in the conversation and not hunched over in the kitchen with the proverbial tick of a chiming clock.

There was even a thrill in envisioning the evenings that would pass. Retiring for the night to the same room, crawling together into the same bed. He liked to think that there might come a time where accepting Hannibal’s touches would be easy- no hesitation or seconds stolen as he attempted to reason with his oft unreasonable mind. No apprehension to cloud what should have been pleasurable and enjoyable.

He lingered in the shower, longer than what he allowed himself on campus. Indulging in the comfort of a familiar space and the privacy of the moment until the water ran cold and tepid. He twisted the faucet to stopper the flow, the sound of the water on the porcelain tub coming to a clipped end. The plumbing lurched, chugging noisily within the tiled walls and he pushed the curtain aside, metal rings clattering noisily on the shower rod.

He passed the towel over his flesh- gooseflesh prickling up his arms from the sudden chill of the room, toes curling in the sodden bathmat. He brought it through his hair, knowing the friction would only separate the locks, making the riot of curls all the more untidy but unbothered by the thought.

When he was dry enough- skin clammy and emanating warmth, the residual heat from the shower peeling off him in waves- he stood in front of the vanity, running a hand across the mirror to push away the fog. His reflection was revealed in swipes, mottled by streaks over the mirrored surface. His skin was flushed, wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

He thought of the photo of him, stretched across the internet. A prelude to a mugshot, his face obscured though still too visible. Too much of him plastered on the web page. How different he looked from the polished photos of Noah, Hobbs and Sutcliffe. Tears cutting streaks down his ruddy face and lips pursed.

Did he look guilty?

Were his sins tattoos on his flesh, an impression that could not be seen but was there all the same? A subtle and nuanced declaration to the world that he was _other_?

He was aware of how he presented, exploiting his wide and vivid eyes and soft curls to create a facade. A persona he cultivated since before he was even aware of his actions, crafting a suit of his own that inspired pity while Hannibal’s inspired respect.

A suit that could not be undone now, not when it mattered most but it might require some stitching.

He reached out, his hand guided less by instinct than by the image reflected back to him, fingers cupping his chin and scratching slowly at the stubble. He had never been a vain person, and he understood most would consider him attractive. But he never indulged much in such notions, never giving more than cursory attention to his visage. It generally only brought with it misplaced hatred and anger, things he preferred to leave unturned in the shadows of his thoughts. He scrutinized himself now, each expanded pore and individual eyelash.

He preferred the facial hair that shaped the cut of his jaw. The facial hair that helped obscure him, made him appear less juvenile. Less the image of his more vulnerable self.

He read, once, about the conscious decisions made in court. Defendants donning a disguise of innocence to strike sympathy with the jurors who might condemn them. Glasses and expensive clothing, trying to look as presentable as possible. As harmless as possible.

As _normal_ as possible.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching for the razor that sat on the shelf of the medicine cabinet, pumping the foaming lather into his palm before methodically coating it across his face.

He shaved, stripping himself away with each pull of the razor- clumps of thinned out shaving cream, dirtied with his trimmed hair, fell to the basin of the sink. It swirled down the drain, washed into the pipes. He thought of water and how it was synonymous with cleansing. Rain and showers and water blessed with the intention of washing away sins. A proverbial baptism and offering to God. Creating a blank slate that would sooner or later be riddled with fissures and blood splatters once more but for now it was clear. Pure.

When he was finished with the task, he ran a hand down his face- the skin unusually smooth. He grimaced at his own reflection, the years he seemed to shave away with the hair.

He looked younger without the manicured hair accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and the rounded jut of his chin. More innocent than he was, obscuring his cruelty behind his curls and wide eyes, his youthful visage distracting from the monster within.

Yet, he was struck with a twisting and visceral response at seeing himself look so vulnerable once more. So helpless.

He pushed himself away from the vanity before he could linger for too long, trying to swallow down the discontent that stirred in his stomach.

He left the bathroom, the towel pinched at his waist and he darted across the hall, slamming his bedroom door closed before his dad might wander upstairs and see the love-bites decorating his chest. He dressed quickly in his room- his dad was always careful to knock before intruding but it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take, sliding into a pair of jeans and shirking on a loose tee-shirt.

Once dressed, he sifted through his hastily packed bags, digging through the front pocket of his backpack until he found his discarded phone- turned off since the moment he diverted from his home to Hannibal’s, not wanting to be traced as he traveled to Baltimore. He turned it on now, sitting on his bed as he watched the phone’s logo flash across the small screen.

He regretted it a minute later, tossing the device to the pillows behind him when it buzzed without relenting in his palm. Notifications flooding it all at once- missed text messages, phone calls and voicemails pinging faster than he could clear them. Names flashing across the banner- Callie, Dillon, Chris, his dad. Numbers he was unfamiliar with and that were not programmed in his phone but were accompanied with the name of someone who’s face he could barely envision, a classmate from a shared class that had never deigned to speak with him before. Numbers of people proclaiming to be long-forgotten classmates from high school, other kids named a danger to themselves and others.

He perched his elbows on his knees, and he bowed his head, resting against his palms as he listened to the phone vibrate against the arranged pillows, accompanied by a ping.

News of his non-arrest, an informal questioning that would be distorted as it traveled through the student mass until the story brought with it handcuffs and rattled off Miranda Rights, had no doubt reached a fever-pitch. One that was only further exacerbated by the article and the nausea that struck him at the thought was overwhelming. Disorienting in its force. Fresh waves of anger crashed against him, cracking against his skull and splintering his bones.

Everyone would _know_.

The thought of his promised life with Hannibal- quiet and reserved, shrouded from the blaring noise of this life- had never felt more distant.

Whatever tension he had managed to ease away beneath the fall of the water had returned to him with renewed force. The humiliation that swept over him quickly displaced by the rage that came in greater increments. Where once there had had been reservations to their new and hastily constructed plan, there was only resolution.

Clipping Lounds down before she could write and spread even more distasteful things about him, flaunting the words as journalism when really they were nothing more than gossip. Gossip which teetered and toed the lines of libel with the occasional skip in her balance.

She knew exactly what she was doing, twisting the law that protected others just enough- recanting her articles when she failed to do so well enough and was threatened with a lawsuit. She was not an innocent- not a well-meaning if crude journalist. She was concerned more with telling the most view-worthy story than with informing the public.

It would feel good to kill her. _Righteous_ , even. She was dangerous in a different sort of way, but still dangerous. Still deserving of it, and he was overcome by the visions that struck him. The tableaux that unfurled and constructed itself within his mind.

They would turn her into something beautiful. Something _better_ than the garbage she spouted. Elevating her so that when the name Freddie Lounds was spoken it brought with it sympathy and admiration rather than detestation and long-suffering sighs.

He startled from his thoughts by a knock at the door, blinking into the space before him as if only seeing it for the first time. His mind once more detached itself from his body and he glanced around him, wondering how long he was lost in his thoughts. Thoughts of carnage and blood-soaked hands and poetry etched into flayed skin.

Too long, he decided, licking his lips as he called out, “come in.”

The door pushed open, his dad stepping into the room. His eyes fell on Will, flicking down to his bare jaw but saying nothing about it as he said, “I just called Crawford. We should probably leave in half an hour.” His tone was hesitant, apologetic for once more having to drag him to the belligerent man.

Will leaned back, stretching his legs out before him as he gave a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll just...take the dogs out for a quick walk if that’s okay.”

The fresh air would help clear his mind. Expelling the violent things in his mind with each exhalation. It would hardly do to wander into the BSU with his mind so cluttered, filled with the grotesque angles of bent limbs and dark blood.

William nodded, the skin below his eyes sunken and violet. He hadn’t slept all night, Will knew. Kept awake by the thought of his son and the new mess he found himself in.

He wouldn’t ask if Will did it, even when prompted. Was it conviction in his son- an unfounded certainty that he was not capable of such cruelty? Or was it a ploy for ignorance? Preferring the shadows of half-truth to the glaring light of reality?

How many times would they find themselves here before he could no longer turn a blind eye? When coincidences mounted and he could justify them no more?

Will watched as his father retreated down the hall without another word, returning back to the lower level. He counted out a full minute before rising himself.

He reached for the phone that had finally fallen silent, turning to the daunting task of clearing the notifications as he wandered down the stairs. He swiped away the missed calls and voicemails- he had no intention of returning any of them, and they would only inspire emotions he felt ill-prepared to control.

He turned instead to the too many texts, slipping his feet into his shoes and leaving them untied as he lead the dogs outside. He ignored most of them, marking them as read without bothering to open them. The only one he bothered to open was Callie’s, guilt twitching within his chest at the sight of her name, accompanied with the small, circular photograph of her smiling face.

The first few were clustered together, sent within minutes of the other when she was anxious and unwilling to wait for a response that would not come.

‘ _Will what’s going on? Chris is saying you got arrested?’_

‘ _Does this have something to do with Noah?? That’s so ridiculous, you didn’t even know him.’_

‘ _Are they bringing you to the Lynchburg department? Do you want me to come over?’_

The next singular text came hours later- sent to his powered down phone just as he was crawling into Hannibal’s bed, straddling his lap.

‘ _Can you just call me when you can?’_

There were still more messages though, sent from this morning and his fingers tightened their grasp on the device at the block of words filling the speech bubble. They were recent- probably sent only minutes before he stepped into the shower. Several hours after _TattleCrime_ published their article on him.

They were not laced in condemnation or disgust- Callie far too convinced of his _goodness_ to believe him capable of such heinous crimes though that would have been preferable. He would have preferred the fear and the request to never contact her again then what was spread out before him.

‘ _I know you’re probably avoiding me and everyone else because you’re upset but we all know you didn’t do it. Seriously, that bitch on TattleCrime doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I read up on her and she’s been sued like five times.’_

‘ _Anyway, please just give me a call when you can. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’m not mad or anything.’_

‘ _And you don’t have to be embarrassed about the stuff with your doctor. You know you can always talk to me.’_

There was another message below it, but he didn’t read it, scoffing loudly as he turned the phone off and shoved it in his pocket. There was a part of him, a cruel part of him, that wanted to return the message with a biting taunt. A confirmation that she didn’t know him as well as she thought- that he spent the evening not so much embarrassed and hiding as he did in the bed of another. Eating the flesh of someone he would soon kill- just as he killed all the other people he was _too sweet to ever harm._

Unfair words lobbed in her direction when she didn’t deserve them. No, the kind thing to do would be to call her and apologize for the guilt by association that would settle on her like a shroud. Tell her the matter was too complicated and she was better off. Preserve her reputation before he might tarnish it.

She deserved better than him, really.

He came to an abrupt halt, stumbling in the grass, when a stick whizzed through the air, coming to settle several feet away. He stared at it, blinking at the otherwise unassuming stick, before rising his gaze, following the arc it had traveled to the tree-line surrounding the property. The woods were dense, branches and leaves flourishing with the approach of summer. Dense enough that it obscured the sight of the brown hooded sweater, his eyes sliding past Matthew twice before finally catching sight of his movement, a hand rising and waving through the air.

“Of _fucking_ course,” Will hissed under his breath, eyes flicking skyward as though he might level a glare at whichever god was responsible for this specific torment.

His lips tugged into a frown, a withering sigh slipping between them. He twisted where he stood, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his dad wasn’t watching him before he bridged the distance between them.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Matthew sang as he approached, his voice raised and lilted in manic delight.

Will ignored him, fingers curling around his arm and dragging him deeper into the woods. Leaves rustled in his haste to follow, twigs snapping and causing barks to echo from the dogs scattered in their play in the yard.

When he was far enough away from the house that the cluster of trees and foliage would shield them, he swung his arm around- slamming Matthew against the base of the nearest oak and pinning him there- hands pushing against his broad shoulders. His eyes pinched close, a grunt punched out from his lungs with the collision.

It was satisfying, watching the flicker of pain that ignited on his face- tossing him around as though he were a limp doll to do as he pleased with.

Maybe that would be how he killed him- ply him with so many drugs and alcohol that he could hardly stand without stumbling. Throw him around until all of his bones broke and his pale skin was painted purple.

He would enjoy killing Matthew most of all, he thought- swallowing the saliva that pooled beneath his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a good chance that the next update will not be until the next year, so a wonderful holiday to you all! I wish everyone a safe and relaxing time!  
> I have still been writing during my little ~hiatus~ so the hope is that when things settle down at work and with the general...everythingness...going on I can resume posting more regularly. I also have quite a few other things in the works outside of this story that I'm excited about so I'm trying to be positive about the new year. Hannigram, give me strength <3
> 
> NEXT UP: Matthew and Will catch up before a trip to Quantico. Then, the hunt for the sounder begins.


	25. Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *skates in on rollerblades with an iced coffee* okay, I'm back. Had a bit of a breakdown, dyed my hair three different colors, wrote a lot of porn to cope. I know it's been a long while since the last update, and I just wanted to thank you all for your kindness and patience! It is appreciated and loved! <3 <3

“What are you doing here?” Will spat out between gritted teeth, head tipping to the side as he considered Matthew below him. “If my dad sees you he might honestly kill you this time.”

“That run in the family?” Matthew asked, recovering quickly from the wince of pain that had pinched his features when Will tossed him against the tree, raising a brow. “Your dad won’t do shit. Never did all the other times you snuck me in and he found us.” He offered a salacious grin, eyebrows waggling suggestively and Will sneered, pulling his hands back only to shove them against him once more.

“Why are you here?” he repeated, voice rising to be heard over the grunt that followed, the breath knocked from his lungs. Matthew coughed once, stifling his discomfort with the sound.

The humor displaced immediately from Matthew’s face, his chin lowering as he narrowed his gaze at Will. His beady eyes were half-lidded, gleaming menacingly as a pink tongue darted out to lick his lips. “Did you do it?” he whispered, as though the earth itself might bear witness to Will’s confession and he was trying to keep it silenced. As though they stood not in the middle of the private plot of land and cluttered woods but a confessional, velvet curtains a barricade to the world.

Will swallowed, considering him for a moment. Considering the article that Matthew was no doubt referring to, the damning words cluttering the space between them. “Do what? Kill Hobbs? Or Noah?”

“You tell me.”

Will chewed the words in his mouth, lips pinched in silence. Whatever deal he and Hannibal had struck, Hannibal seemed to trust him to keep quiet. And Matthew would, so long as he was having his  _ fun _ . His lips would only loosen once his attention waned, danger found in the mundane. And for all his impulsiveness, his clumsy manipulations that were obvious when placed beside Will’s more nuanced ones, Matthew was  _ cunning _ . He knew what he was doing- knew enough that it was beneficial to be seen as fumbling and boorish than conniving; to obscure his intelligence behind twisted lips and vacant gazes.

He would not live long enough to be a real threat- for Will and Hannibal to run the risk of wearing down his attention.

Though Will had never run the risk of that he supposed, Matthew’s obsession with him only growing in their time apart. A viciousness accompanying it as though Will were at fault for moving on in his life and leaving him behind.

“You seemed to figure everything else out so well on your own. Why do you need me for this?” he said eventually, stepping back as he pulled his hands away, watching Matthew stumble at the sudden loss of support.

He regained his balance, one arm extending outward to act as a counterweight as he found his center of gravity. He straightened his spine, hands brushing over his jean-clad thighs as he chuckled. “Busy boy,” he said below his breath, settling on the decision that Will did  _ do it. _ “Is that what  _ this _ is for? You look fucking sixteen again,” he asked, reaching a hand outward and rubbing Will’s bare chin. “Trying to look young and innocent? The ruse loses some of its weight once they get to know you, though. You’ve never been innocent, have you?”

Will scowled, slapping his hand away. “What does  _ that _ mean?” he asked, words sharpened into a threat at the taunt.

Matthew ignored him, leaning back on his heels as he said, “You’re getting what you deserve, you know.” The words were acerbic, seethed from between gritted teeth, and Will frowned, his lips pulling down into a severe expression.

“What? Are you  _ happy _ I’m under investigation?” he asked, quirking a brow.

“No,” Matthew was quick to say, shrugging his shoulders in a lazy gesture. “Just pointing out the obvious. I’m sure Daddy Lecter’s already working to get you out of trouble, just like he did with Sutcliffe. Is that why you can’t leave? You’re indebted to him now?”

Will glanced away, swallowing thickly as he nodded, remembering the role he played. A role specially crafted for the other boy, creating and donning his assorted masks as needed. Making himself small and rueful, eyes averting to the ground. The way Matthew liked him; pliant and dependent on him. _Needy_ in a way that didn't neuter his viciousness and cruelty. 

Matthew sniffed. “Like I said. Getting what you deserve. You shouldn’t have involved him in the first place.”

His tone was miffed, not quite cold and sharp in cruelty but blunt. The tone of a jilted lover and Will struggled to fight the roll of his eyes as he rose them once more to settle on Matthew’s ear. “Are you...jealous I didn’t ask you to help me kill Sutcliffe?”

Matthew strolled around him, dragging his feet through the bramble of leaves and twigs so each shuffle was a puncture of sound in the otherwise still woods. “I would have done it, you know. I would have liked to have that with you.”

He made it sound romantic, as though he was deprived of a tryst rather than a crime. One that had begun as a transaction but flourished like wildfire, burning everything it touched until all Will’s senses were clouded in the smoldering embers, the smoke making his eyes water.

“I wasn’t asking him out on a date. I blackmailed him into it because I would get caught.  _ We _ would have been caught,” he amended, extending a finger and gesturing between them to punctuate his statement. “That’s sort of his whole thing, isn’t it?  _ Not  _ getting caught?”

“Still,” Matthew said, reaching outward and plucking at the pine needles of a low-hanging tree branch. It swung upon the release, his fingers tearing the thin blades into uneven pieces that fell to his feet. “Must have really wanted him dead if you were willing to sell your soul to the Chesapeake Ripper. Made a deal with the devil, didn’t you?”

Will said nothing, lowering his gaze to the ground. How wicked it felt, delighting in the moment soon to come when Matthew would realize his mistake. Realize that Will hadn’t made a deal with the devil so much as he did join him as an equal. That the only one who had sold their soul was himself, fattening himself before his own slaughter.

“You fuck him yet?” he asked crudely, the question barbed- belying his envy.

“Jealous, again?” Will taunted, a non-answer that he knew would irritate him- a juvenile delight found in the twitch of Matthew's jaw; the slight narrowing of his eye as his gaze fell and rose across Will's form. As though he might see the indentations of Hannibal's touches littered across his flesh, evidence blotting his pale skin.

Finding nothing- the bruises well hidden beneath Will's shirt- he averted his gaze with a scoff, feigning disinterest as he plucked at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt. “You can fuck who you want. Never cared before, don’t care now.” A lie, and a poor one at that. Matthew had never liked sharing Will; a petulant child too rough with his toys yet guarding them fiercely when looked at by another. The sort of child that would rather shatter a toy than share it. “You should if you haven’t. It might be too cruel to kill him without letting him know how good you are.”

It was less a suggestion than it was degradation, attempting to humiliate Will. A reminder that he had been the first to claim him- that he still believed he claimed him. That he might have the right to offer him or gift him permission for such a thing.

Will bristled at it, swallowing his anger and indignation like bile. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, clearing his throat to add, “so you still plan on helping me? With killing him? After he’s helped clear me, of course.” He forced himself to meet Matthew’s gaze with hopeful eyes rather than hateful ones, widening them as he pushed his lower lip out in a pout. A gesture he knew the other boy would be susceptible to, eyes flicking down to the sight of his protruding lip before rising back to doleful eyes. The look of a puppy kicked one too many times yet eager to believe he would be kicked no more.

“You think he’s going to be able to clear you? So confident he won’t let you rot in prison?” Matthew asked after a moment, his voice raised in a taunt. Poking at what he thought to be the soft underbelly of Will’s security, hastily sowing doubt where he could.

Will rolled his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Why would he? I’m of more use to him out here than in there.” He paused, settling his gaze on Matthew as he added, “he’s planned it out pretty well. He knows what he’s doing.”

A warning, perhaps, that went unnoticed- dark eyes slanting sidelong and jaw shifting as he chewed the soft tissue of his inner cheek. Chewing the declaration that was as much a threat and promise. When he turned back to Will, it was with a look of muted awe, eyes glinting and mouth pulling into an uneven and tilted grin. “Kind of strange, you know. Who would have thought the Chesapeake Ripper would turn out to be so whipped?”

He took a step closer, chin tilted up as he considered Will with appraising eyes. He reached forward, fingers twisting around a curl and tugging it, pulling the strand of hair taut. “I get it, but still. Sort of makes him less a boogeyman, doesn’t it?” He released the curl, watching it spring back to rest against Will’s head- loosened and separated from the rough handling.

“You’ll be disappointed to know how human monsters tend to be,” Will said dryly, shoving his hands in his pockets. A physical barrier to keep him from shoving Matthew back as he crowded him.

“Yeah, you’ve known enough of them, haven’t you? Practically catnip for monsters, you are,” Matthew purred, punctuating the statement with a chuckle. “So, we kill him after then, yeah? Once he’s done all the leg work?”

Will nodded- a slow and hesitant gesture. His curiosity mounting, twisting within him. He and Hannibal hadn’t discussed Matthew much- beyond the decision to kill him for the sounder. It seemed to Will a largely unimportant topic when placed beside so many others but he regretted not asking about it now. Knowing Matthew was slotted into Hannibal’s greater machinations but unsure of _ how _ . To what end the boy might prove useful- what promise he might offer Matthew that his instinct for self-preservation was silenced even when sat before such a great and hungry predator.

Hannibal didn’t work in half-measures. Every decision he made was curated with care and precision, an almost preternatural ability to perceive the best course of action.

So why had Matthew been chosen to be elevated to such a role? Risen to the place of accomplice before he would fall to the one of a victim?

“You made a deal with him too, didn’t you? Aren’t you just doing his dirty work? What exactly do you get out of the bargain?” Will asked- though he had an idea. Matthew was easier to read, simpler to understand even without the assistance of such a remarkable disorder. His motives clean and concise, consistency found in the otherwise riot of his mind.

His grin was wide, wolfish at the question. “Fun, I guess. Practice.” He took another step forward, prompting Will to retreat. Twigs and leaves snapping in his backward steps that came to an abrupt end when he collided with the trunk of a tree.

Will huffed out a breath, punched out from his lungs at the collision and his hand fell to his side, splaying over the rough bark for balance. Matthew didn’t stop, continuing his prowl until he was pressed against Will, pinning him to the tree. His body an unmoving and hard form against him, one broad hand resting on Will’s hip as the other rose to grasp his chin, jerking his head into the desired position. Possessively and unkind, a sharp pain sliding down the muscles of Will’s neck at the motion.

“And you. He knew what he was doing, dangling you in front of me,” he said, bridging the little distance between them to capture Will’s mouth in a kiss.

Urgent and demanding, lips moving faster and more ardently than Will could respond to them. As if unconcerned with whether or not they were working in tandem. He tasted like the sharp and saccharine citrus of energy drinks, an unpleasant and sour note to it.

The hand grasping his hip slid further down, fingers cupping his thigh as he pulled it up- encouraging Will to wrap his leg around him. To make space for him to slot between his legs, his hips bucking against Will in uneven and hurried thrusts. His clothed erection prodded at Will’s lower abdomen, bringing with it a wave of nausea that contorted his stomach.

Will wrenched his head out of the hold, wincing from the effort. “I have to leave. The FBI has a few more questions for me,” he choked out, sliding a hand between them and flattening his palm to Matthew’s chest.

“I’ll be quick-”

“ _ No,” _ Will said, shoving him back with as much force as he could manage from his position against the tree. Matthew stumbled back, losing his footing until he fell to the ground with a grunt. His face flickered, anger skittering across his face and Will swallowed, adding, “Some other time. I really have to go. I was supposed to be there hours ago.”

The anger didn’t fade, though he did release the clench of his jaw, scoffing as he brushed at his jeans. He pulled himself up. “Fine. Guess you gotta be on time to play the role. I won’t get in the way of your little plan.” He moved toward Will, swooping down for a parting kiss.

One that ended within seconds though lingered on Will’s lips for long after. An unpleasant impression that buzzed on his skin during the entire drive to Quantico.

~x~

Freddie Lounds was already in Quantico by the time Hannibal arrived, her bright red curls a splash of color against the monochromatic colors of Jack’s office. Industrial gray the nondescript and bland background she was sat against, back straightened and chin raised so that she looked at Jack from the bridge of her nose. Her expression was self-satisfied as she bounced her ankle, legs folded across each other.

“Do you know why I asked you to come in today, Miss Lounds?” Jack began without preamble, seated opposite Lounds, Alana standing beside him. Hannibal strode through the office, hands tucked neatly in his pockets as he leaned forward to examine Jack’s meticulously arranged investigation board. It seemed almost quaint, strategically designed with connecting threads and photos- notes hastily scribbled sporadically around it. His eyes fell to the photo set in the center of the board, Will’s identification photo, lifted from his license. Eyes looking forward though distant, lips pressed into a muted scowl- as if reminding himself partway through the process to temper his bitterness. Hastily hiding his discomfort with the lens of the camera, his glasses left aside to prevent a glare from obscuring his features. Nothing to hide behind.

Neither of the profilers- nor Jack himself- had missed the glance Freddie spared in the board’s direction, eyes lingering obscenely on the collection as though she might commit it to memory in the quick and furtive glances she stole.

Hannibal turned on his heel, making certain to keep himself stationed in front of the board- his body obstructing it from view.

Freddie’s lips were painted with a mauve lip stain, mouth stretching into a smug grin. The sort of grin one wore when they felt as if they had done something very clever. Debatable, Hannibal thought. “I imagine it’s to ask me to recant my most recent article,” she said, the words coy and saccharine, lilted with feigned innocence.

Alana blinked at that, brows raising as she asked, “would you if we did?”

“I have no reason to. We made the necessary disclaimers and we never once actually said  _ A plus B equals C. _ Whatever conclusion my readers came to, they got there from their own interpretation of the information we presented,” she rattled off, the words practiced and falling from her tongue with ease. She ended the statement with a twist of her lips, the already smug smile curling into something cruder. Self-righteous and conceited.

Jack nodded at the declaration, lips pursed. “Lucky for me then I’m not asking you to recant,” he said, lips twitching into a small smile when Freddie’s face fell, her surprise splayed across her sharp and angled features.

She cleared her throat, sitting straighter in her chair as she rose her chin- glancing down the bridge of her nose at the FBI agent. “Well, what are you hoping to achieve?”

“Among your...esteemed readers is the Chesapeake Ripper. We’ve known this for some time that he reads your site specifically,” he said, glancing sidelong as he added beneath his breath- though loud enough for it to be heard in the small room- “for whatever reason.”

The slight did nothing to fracture Freddie’s delight at the admission, black-painted lashes fanning rapidly over her glinting eyes. Her head tipped to the side in a pointed gesture of intrigue, folded hands resting on her lap as she slid forward. “Agent Crawford, are you asking me to open a line of communication between yourself and our most infamous serial killer? The one you’ve failed to catch for so long?”

A moment passed between them, thick with tension at the juvenile swatting that pelted against Jack all the same. “That’s the one.”

“This seems like an indirect way of confirming the rumors. You think the Ripper and Will Graham are working in tandem?” she asked, unable to keep the priggish tone from seeping into her words. Her earnest delight with the turn of events was palpable, a sweet perfume that wafted from her with each shift against the stiff leather chair, mingling with the floral fragrance she wore. Rose and orange blossom.

“It is a theory we’ve been pursuing. It’s outlandish, admittedly. And there’s a good chance nothing will come of our communications. But-”

“If it does, it would cinch everything you need to know,” Freddie interjected, lips pressing into a firm line.

“Yes,” Jack agreed, nodding his head once.

She hummed at the admission, chewing her lip and glancing around the room as if considering the deal. As if she hadn’t made her decision the second the opportunity was presented to her, a front-row viewing to the machinations performed by the FBI in their misguided attempt to lure the Ripper out from hiding.

How tempting of an offer it was. A bright and shiny lure shimmying against a slow-moving current, hiding the hook that would sink into her mouth and retch her from where it was safe. How could she possibly resist? The story so perfectly set before her, gift-wrapped and practically writing itself? Perhaps she had even begun considering the words she would open with, constructing prose within her mind that she would stow away until she sat in her car, recording her own voice into the mechanical receiver of her phone.

When enough time had lapsed that she didn’t seem too desperate to the idea, she said, “Alright, I’ll help. But only for direct ongoing quotes about the nature of the case as it progresses. From you, Agent Crawford. And I want to be on your first call list the moment something changes with it.” Her chin rose forward with the demand, a manufactured bolstering of her slight frame. Trying to be more commanding- more fearsome- than she was.

Hannibal suppressed the grin that twitched at the sight of it.

“I’d expect nothing less, Miss Lounds,” he said, offering her an insincere and pinched smile, a muted chuckle pitched from low in his chest. “Now, as I said, the chance of this confirming our theory is slight. So it’s paramount that we practice subtlety. I know nuance isn’t exactly your area of expertise but the Ripper isn’t going to bite for obvious bait so I’d advise that from here on out you nix mention of the Ripper in relation to Graham. And if you could add another one of your  _ disclaimers _ effectively recanting the possible relationship between the two of them in your last article, it would be wise. If the Ripper is going to care about what you have to say about Graham, we already have his attention. There’s no need to be ham-fisted about it.”

“But the rest of the article-”

“Keep it up,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulder. A dismissive and unbothered gesture, one which made Lounds’s lips tremble and Alana glance at the older man with narrowed eyes.

Alana unfolded her arms from where they crossed over her chest, her voice flat as she began, “We will also be giving you security detail. We don’t think the Ripper would go after you directly- after all, if he does act, he’s going to want you to be the messenger. We’d still like to err on the side of caution, though. And we still don’t know what parameters he uses to choose his victims.”

“No, you don’t know too much about him, do you?” Lounds said, her voice low with the taunt. Before Jack could comment on the insult, she added, “Alright, so I can’t mention your theory. What then am I supposed to write about?”

It was the topic Jack seemed most trilled to speak of, effusing a relaxed demeanor as he reclined in his chair, glancing once to the glass door of his office before turning back to Freddie. “Will Graham should be here any minute. I don’t think he’ll take to the idea, but an interview with him would be good for your site. Especially if you can trip him up.”

“And if he doesn’t take?” she asked, her tone dubious. It was humorous in a way, how quick she was to pull Will apart. She had yet to even meet the boy she leveled with such heinous crimes and accusations and already had formed an image of him. A not entirely inaccurate one, preparing herself for his sharp and prickling mien.

It was Jack’s turn to be smug now, raising a hand and lowering it toward his phone. “Doctor Chilton is an ongoing consult with us on this case and has known Will the longest- his school psychiatrist and teacher for about six years. In fact, he was the doctor who first treated him for his violent tendencies and the person he first admitted them to. I’m sure you can think of a few questions for him that he would be more than happy to answer, should Will decline an interview.”

_ Ah. _

Hannibal had been curious, of course, what exactly Jack planned to have Lounds publish- the fumbling traps he might craft in his attempt to ensnare the Ripper with the young killer as bait. How obvious it seemed now, the doctor’s dislike for Will well-known and vocalized throughout the investigation. Any remarks he could give would be unkind, his soundbites more inflammatory than the article from this morning.

Soundbites that would surely anger any suitor but would inspire something other than simple indignation in the Ripper. Soundbites that might inspire him to act.

A lure too tempting to ignore.

Freddie skewed her lips, eyes bright. “I could think of a few.”

Jack huffed out a small, humorless chuckle. He lowered his gaze to the desk spread before him, fingers idly flipping through the pages of a file even as he kept it close. “Now, I can’t condone breaching doctor-patient confidentiality, so you will need to be creative to work around that. Perhaps you might pad your article with some news regarding the disappearance of the student from Will’s school?” He ended the suggestion by sliding the file across the desk, Lounds hesitating for only a second before she lurched for it. As though he might pull it back from her hands if she lingered unduly.

She pulled the file into her lap, flipping through it as her eyes skimmed down the cluttered pages. “Have you got anything more on that?”

“Agent Miriam Lass has personally been assigned to investigate the case as we believe it’s the weak link in his defense. He lied about his alibi and has yet to provide a suitable one,” he answered blithely.

Lounds hummed, her expression pinched into something less of the caricature she often was, muted in consternation. “If he is working with the Ripper, any crime he may have committed against Noah Heffernan was probably without the Ripper’s blessing. Or knowledge. There’s only so much someone can walk-back a crime once it’s been committed and we’re hoping to find a mess he forgot to clean up,” Jack explained, settling back in his chair as he watched her peruse the file- her gaze hungry.

“It’s the most recent crime as well,” Hannibal said, startling Jack and Alana with his interjection after so much silence. “Fresh crime scenes produce the freshest evidence.” He paused, blinking theatrically as he added, “though, I don’t suppose we have a crime scene yet, do we? Unless you’ve buried the lede on Agent Lass’s work?”

His tone was light enough that it did not seem intentionally derogatory, yet Jack’s brows furrowed all the same, lips pursing before he admitted, “no, we still don’t know anything that happened beyond the party they both attended. That they both left early and without warning.”

Lounds sighed, a drawn-out and attention-demanding sound as she slapped the file closed. “I can work with that though. Having no solid alibi is one thing. Being caught lying about your alibi?” She grinned, the pointed tips of her canine teeth peering out from between her lips. “Some people consider that as good as a confession.”

“And some people, namely the court of law, require more evidence,” Alana said, the words low and acerbic. Her dislike of Jack’s cobbled together plan was apparent in the sloping bitterness of her voice. Still protective of her former patient, even if her confidence in his innocence was slowly plucked apart. Each discovered lie and misstep corroding against her belief that he was too sweet for such atrocities. 

Lounds blinked at her, fiery ringlets fluttering around her face as she glanced from Jack to Alana. “Well, lucky for me I don’t need evidence to do my job. Just a good story,” she said.

“Just remember your disclaimers, Miss Lounds. We don’t need a libel suit tossed into the mix,” Jack advised, his tone stern as he leveled Lounds with a look of warning. His lips parted, an additional thought settled on his tongue before it was swallowed, eyes glancing away from Lounds and to the window-paneled wall that faced the corridor. “It seems Mister Graham has finally graced us with his presence.”

The group turned at the words, watching as Will and William sat in the chairs flanking the walls outside the office, the crown of curls and downcast eyes a distinguishable enough feature. Dressed in his standard uniform, his button-up shirt was rumpled, a hand rising to adjust the wire-frame glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. He was clean-shaven now, though. The manicured hair that stretched across his jaw was gone, making it seem less rigid and defined. More youthful, a purposeful illusion.

Jack was the first to rise from his desk, straightening his lapel as he did so and extending a hand out to Lounds, eyes falling to the file she still held in her grasp. She relented it with a sigh, gathering her belongings as she stood from the chair. “Will Doctor Chilton be available today? I’d like to have the interview ready for publication as soon as possible,” she asked, turning to the door as Jack guided her through the office- one hand on the small of her back, the other holding the file.

“I’ve already spoken with him before you came in. He’ll be expecting a call,” Jack said, stopping in front of his door, a hand reaching out to curl around the knob though he made no further move to open it.

Lounds smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Agent Crawford,” she said demurely.

“Let’s just keep this arrangement as professional as we can, given how unconventional it is,” Jack said, the final words before he wrenched the door open and stepped aside. Lounds was the first to step through, Alana following after. Hannibal entered the hall, stepping to the side to watch the interaction. Will spared him no glance, pushing himself off the chair to stand as Lounds approached him, her hand extended in a gesture he pointedly ignored.

“Will Graham. I’m Freddie Lounds, with TattleCr-”

“Fuck you,” he bit off, the words pointed and venomous as his lips pulled into a sneer. His chest rose and fell in heaving breaths, his anger and vitriol a near palpable presence in the cluttered hallway.

Lounds blinked once at it, letting her hand fall to the side. “Well, first impressions are everything, aren’t they?”

Will scoffed, running his fingers through his hair and disheveling the curls. “You write what you did and then expect me to be  _ nice _ to you? Half my school is convinced I’m some psychopathic killer and the other half-” he stumbled on the words, choking on the sour things he didn’t want to say. He pinched his lips, gaze flitting about the small audience spread before him before finishing in a small voice, “it wasn’t  _ fair. _ I thought you couldn’t publish stuff like that about minors.”

She was unfazed by the accusation, her tone business-like as she explained, “There is a small, gray area between what I can and can’t write. That’s where I do most of my work. And you’re not a minor, now. There’s no legal precedent to protect you.”

Will frowned, his words incredulous as he asked, “Loopholes, then?” His hands fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, his anxiety and barely-tempered rage making him restless. No doubt having spent the last few hours bearing the fall-out from her crude words. Phone calls and messages from curious, tactless schoolmates eager to wedge themselves within the case, collecting a story for their own personal repertoire.

Lounds tipped her head to the side, wearing an expression of false sympathy. “I can’t undo what I wrote but I can make it better. I’m sure my readers would love an exclusive interview, and it will give us both the opportunity to paint you in a better light.”

He scowled at the offer, brow knitting as he took a step forward. His voice was low, the syllables enunciated with care as he said, “The only one who needs to be painted in a better light is  _ you _ .”

She was silent a moment, gaze lowering as she considered Will. The threat looming in his voice, the body language clear. She quirked a brow, returning her gaze to his face. “Is that a no, then?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, if that’s the case, I guess there’s no more reason for me to be here. I’m sure my readers will be just as interested in what your former teacher and therapist has to say about you,” she said, reaching into the bag swung over her shoulder and pulling a set of keys from within.

“Chilton?” It was William who spoke, rising from his chair to stand beside his son, brows raised in surprise at the words. “ _ Really?” _

She smirked. “Yes, he is more than cooperative about the idea. Some people know how to take advantage of an opportunity when it’s presented to them.”

“I’m more than capable of taking advantage of an opportunity when I see it,” Will said, the words cold- an undeniable threat lacing within the vowels and consonants. An undeniably delectable sort of cruelty seeping into his voice, one which sent a shiver down each knot of Hannibal’s spine, even as his gaze slanted to where Jack and Alana stood- sparing each other a glance of concern.

“Will,” William hissed, a hand reaching out to grab hold of his arm, fingers nestling in the crook of his elbow. His face was flushed, eyes widened as Will lurched from whatever trance seemed to take hold of him, blue eyes blinking rapidly as he stumbled back before steadying against the firm form behind him.

Lounds’s grin was feline, eyes glinting almost manically with the witnessed display. “We know. The question everyone’s trying to figure out is just how capable you are,” she said, offering one final smile before twisting on her heels. They clicked down the tiled floors of the corridor as she retreated down the hall, the sound growing dimmer and more muted with each second that slipped past.

Jack waited until she had disappeared into the elevator, the mechanical doors closing with a chime as he turned back to the father and son- William’s head bent as he whispered something into Will’s ear. They separated as Jack approached them, tipping his head forward congenially as he said, “Sorry about that, my meeting with Miss Lounds ran later than I anticipated.”

“Sure,” William scoffed, his tone disbelieving as he glanced down the hall once more. “What was she doing here anyway?”

“Discussing her most recent publication. Namely, the undisclosed source she worked with. That’s all I can say at the moment,” Jack lied, waving a dismissive hand in the air. He turned his gaze to Will then, nodding once as he extended the same hand down the hall, gesturing to a bend in the corridor that would lead to the set of interrogation rooms they had sat in just twenty-four hours earlier. “Thank you for coming in. I know yesterday’s chat ended prematurely. I would just like to go over a few things if you wouldn’t mind coming with me.”

Will nodded, eyes falling to his feet as he and his father followed behind Jack. He brushed past Hannibal, keeping his gaze lowered even as Hannibal’s own bore into him. He had showered since leaving his Baltimore home, the lingering scent of Hannibal’s smell displaced by the more familiar smell of his personal toiletries. The cloyingly acrid smell of aftershave and cologne, mingling with something else. Something familiar in its own way, yet wholly strange on Will. Alien, even, his brow furrowing as he watched the small party disappear from view.

Recognition came to him, bringing with it the stirring of something in his chest. Something vicious and hungry, a possessiveness that clawed against the ivory bones. He smelled like  _ Matthew _ , the scent a sharp deviation from his own musk. Soap and pine, dog and sweat. All of it smothered in the smell of Matthew’s offensive toiletries, the scent of grease from some fast food eatery.

It was no surprise that Matthew sought him out, especially after Lounds’s article was set loose on the world and splattered Will’s face and name across the internet- lazily detailing his crimes. It would delight the boy, excitement thrumming within him at all the cruel things Will was capable of. Situating himself outside of Will’s home, hidden behind the trees surrounding the property until presented with the opportunity to approach him without William catching sight.

And once Will was close, right within his grasp, he would be unable to resist  _ touching _ him. Kissing him, even- just as he had done when Hannibal hosted the two of them for dinner; Matthew too tempted by the thought of chasing after the taste of Will. As though the copper tang of blood might still linger on his lips and Matthew could lap it up; taste the sins committed by his hand. So fixated with the boy he thought he might still possess that he was unable to taste the poison.

“Hannibal?”

He turned at the sound of his name, blinking at Alana as she took a step closer to him, head tipped to the side. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.”

“I was just saying how different he seemed. Just then, when he was talking to Lounds,” she said, her words a pensive whisper as though the hall were filled with too many interlopers. As though speaking it too loudly might be as good as a condemnation.

Hannibal nodded, schooling his expression into one of great consternation, worrying his brow. “I was thinking the same thing. Very different from the Will I knew several years ago.”

She chewed her lip, eyes slanting downward in thought. After several drawn-out seconds, she said on a sigh, “I wonder if Miriam’s found anything.”

“Are you coming around to her theory?”

“Aren’t you?” she retorted, quirking a brow in question. Hannibal said nothing, letting his silence fill the space between them. “I’m going to check in on the security detail for Lounds. Make sure she’s safe.”

“Might I join you, then? I’ll hardly be of any use waiting here,” he said, following behind her as she navigated through the corridor. It wouldn’t do to sit by idly, after all. And certainly, there would be some benefit to knowing the specifications of Lounds’s security arrangement- one that he and Will would need to circumvent in the early hours of the night. Already his veins were warm in preparation of the hunt, skin prickling with gooseflesh and saliva pooling beneath his tongue in anticipation. A pleasant, discordant hum muffled the edges of his thoughts, smoothing them where they were too jagged and sharp. 

A recipe card already sat on the counter in his home, set aside before departing for the day. One he had been meaning to try and thought Will would enjoy, the rich and hearty flavors favored over something brighter- more nuanced. French onion soup made fattier, more indulgent with the addition of a perfectly braised cut of tongue.

It would give Miss Lounds something to do with her tongue other than wag it.

~x~

Jack brought Will to a different interrogation room than the one he had been in the evening before- one Will hesitated to even refer to as such. Dressed more like a conference room, the wood-paneled walls with standard mirrors facing out into the hall, it was warmer than the bare, Spartan bulb and monochromatic walls of the other room. More intimate, less condemning. Chosen, perhaps, with the hope of fostering a kinder relationship, stepping back from the brutality of the last time they met and approaching with careful and hesitant steps under the guise of something other.

Treating Will less as the suspect he was so that he might slip into the role on his own, his guard lowered.

"Can I get you some water?" Jack asked, his tone neutral. Neither congenial nor outright hostile though Will recognized the purposefulness of it for what it was, shaking his head in a slow motion. "Alright, why don't you sit down and we can get this over with. I'm sure you'd much rather be home given everything that's happened. It was already overwhelming, and I can't imagine Lounds's article helped any."

The chairs in this room were more comfortable than the firm, metal ones from yesterday. High-backed leather seats on wheels that rolled quietly across the carpeted floor as Will settled down in one opposite Jack, the hydraulic lifting mechanism groaning with his weight. He folded his arms across his chest, furrowing his brow as he glanced to the painting hanging behind the agent. "No, it really didn't."

"I'm sorry," Jack said, the word sounding sincere despite the lie it concealed.  _ Liar. _

Will said nothing, staring at the painting for several elongated seconds. A boat at sea; the sort of manufactured, mass-produced image that was seemingly designed to be as uninteresting as possible. No distractions found in the rolling, navy blue waves that caressed against the frame of the vessel, the horizon a distant glow of yellow that faded into the encroaching darkness of sunset. He blinked at it before slanting his gaze to Jack, their eyes meeting. It was what Jack had been waiting for, his lips twitching into a smile as he said, "thanks for coming back. I know yesterday got a little carried away. I just have some questions and was hoping to go over the night of the party. Just try to clear a few things up."

Will offered a stiff nod, his arms sliding from where they were crossed- falling into his lap. It was easy enough to slip into a more pleasant facade, smoothing the harsh wrinkles of his brow and widening his eyes. Mirroring Jack Crawford's own insincere kindness and congeniality. "Alright. What do you want to know?"

"When did you arrive at the party?" he asked, shifting the file to the side and pulling a pad of paper towards him. It was not an empty page, half-filled with notations and questions that Will couldn’t quite read from his position, catching only words and incomplete thoughts. Scrawled in the unfamiliar hand, notated in the manner that only the one transcribing it could understand the intent. Jack twirled a pen in his hands, thumb clicking against the cap as he lowered the nib to the lined page and glanced expectantly at Will.

"Nine,” he said, wincing at the scratch of the pen as Jack wrote it down. He remembered the start of the evening well, clear and concise in the way one could remember the moments before disaster. Insignificant things made prominent by the collision on a highway or the fierce winds and rain that struck down trees and buildings. He was the one who insisted on arriving at nine. Too early, Callie had said, not sharing his eagerness to begin the evening so that it might end earlier rather than a desire to attend the event. She relented, in the end, unknowingly hastening the timeline that spiraled until it ended at this moment; Will sitting opposite Jack- tucked away within the halls of the FBI.

How strange it was to consider what might have happened had they only lingered a little longer before stepping into the home- marching through the yard that was sodden with recent rain and spilled blood. An undiscovered crime scene, littered with discarded plastic cups still tacky with the scant traces of liquor and beer- the weeks trash pushed to the curb and sitting above the turned dirt.

He would be at work now, he imagined. Hidden in the back as he often did during his shifts. His body count lower, his hands less stained with blood. His torso unblemished and unmarked; Hannibal’s neck smooth and unmarred by the indents of his teeth. Unaware that Hannibal’s lips tasted of clove and coffee and mint- still blind to the fierceness of his love.

It was a curious thought, one he pushed away almost as quick as it came. He didn’t like this world that didn’t exist, and it ached to even think about it. Yet it was equally as strange and uncomfortable to think about how dependent he was on reality. On the memory of Hannibal’s lips on his flesh, his own teeth sinking into skin. He clutched at it with startling fervor and want.

_ With startling need. _

He had never felt like he needed someone until Hannibal. Yet he did _need_ him. Like he needed air to breathe and it was a suffocating thought.

He cleared his throat, lowering his gaze as he brushed his hand across the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “We go there at nine. I left like an hour later after we fought,” he repeated, trying to talk over his riotous thoughts.

"Who did you go with?"

"My girlfriend, Callie,” he said on a sigh, the conversation already feeling redundant. Repetition of things he had already said but, he supposed, that was the point. Waiting for him to stumble on his words, to lie. More than he already had, he corrected, wincing at the reminder of his crumbling alibi.

"Calista Novak?" Jack asked, raising a brow as Will nodded. "Anyone else?"

"No."

Back and forth questions, then. A routine of the same and Will swallowed the sigh of frustration that threatened to bubble past his lips. "And the fight you and Callie had?"

"What about it?" he said through bared teeth, lowering his gaze and glancing up at the older man from beneath his lashes. An unabashed glower, heat simmering in his eyes. A look that was returned in equal measure, one brow raising pointedly and Will huffed out a sigh. "She pulled me into an empty room and we started to make out,” he answered in a mumble, cheeks warming as he, once more, recounted the evening. "She wanted to do more. I didn't. We argued about it and I left."

Jack let a beat of silence pass between them, tipping his head to the side as he asked, "To go to the library?" The words were lilted as if in mockery, their intent clear now that the pleasantries and beginning steps of the interrogation had been established. As if to say  _ “gotcha!”;  _ a reminder that he had not forgotten about the first hitch that had sent Will reeling.  _ Will’s alibi. _ The lie he fumbled, caught between too many snares he himself had set.

He pinched his lips. "My roommate brings girls over a lot and locks me out. Sometimes I spend the night with Callie but that isn’t always an option so I sleep in my car or just study all night. I slept in my car that night, I just got a little confused,” he explained, forcing his eyes to remain locked on the dark gaze boring holes into him. "I'm sorry."

"Do you get confused a lot?" Jack asked, the question making Will blink, his brow knitting. He hadn’t expected the veer in questioning, preparing instead for more of the same. Accusations meant to make him falter, hoping he might falter beneath the weight of scrutiny.

"Sometimes,” he said with a shrug.

"Do you still see a therapist regularly?"

His lip twitched, shifting in his seat with discomfort. How invasive it was, toeing a line he rather not tread but he swallowed his objections, folding his hands on the table between them. "Not during school. Just between semesters."

"So not regularly,” Jack said, the words muddled in judgment- a condemnation in its own right as he scribbled something else down on the pad of paper, pulling it towards him so Will could make out even less of the scrawled thoughts. "Did you ever bring up your confusion to her during your sessions?"

He shrugged once more, frowning. A hand reached up, adjusting the glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. “No, it didn’t seem like a big enough concern.”

“You get confused enough to forget where you are and don’t mention it to a doctor? Even with your history of sleepwalking and fugue-like episodes?” he asked, voice dubious and tinged with a facsimile of concern. "You never thought about seeing a doctor?"

Will frowned at the prompt, his lip twitching. "Would  _ you _ see a doctor if you were me?"

It was, if nothing else, effective in earning a few scant moments of quiet- Jack’s lips pursing into a flat line as he leaned back in his chair. He considered the question, chewing it between his teeth before deciding to move on, head tipped to the side as he asked, "Did you know Noah?"

"We had a class together, but other than that no. We never spoke."

Jack sighed, setting his file down on the table and leaning back in the chair, the seat groaning with the shifting weight. He rose a large hand, bringing it to his face it where massaged the bridge of his nose. “Will, I know you’re a smart kid. Everyone I’ve spoken with about you has said as much, and I’ve seen your grades. I know you know how bad this looks,” he said, something like exhaustion seeping into his words. As though he was growing weary from the effort of defending Will from his own accusations.

Will swallowed, offering a slow and tentative nod. “I know. I know it looks bad but I didn’t do it. I haven’t done any of it,” he said, lips pursing in a pout.

“I need you to help me prove that,” he said.

He was  _ wrong _ , Will knew. It was the inverse that was true; he didn’t necessarily need to prove his innocence, but Jack  _ needed _ to prove his guilt to move forward. For the accusations to become more formal, for the conversation to become proper interrogations. For Will to be returned to a bare and cold jail cell rather than into the care of his father and home.

Thoughts that Will kept to himself; saying as much would simply become further ammunition in the chamber Jack was trying to load against him, a proverbial weapon sat between them. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the file on the table, the FBI seal embedded on the soft cover. He knew there was no evidence- nothing discovered, nothing to be collected. But it was still a bargaining chip, a show of faith he could offer.  _ Compelling _ , he thought, forcing his gaze to rise and meet Jack’s.

“I’ll give you my DNA if you want. Prints and whatever,” he said, flourishing his hand through the air in a flippant gesture. “Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”

Jack blinked at that, eyes widening in surprise with Will’s generous offer before narrow in suspicion. An almost imperceptible gesture yet Will caught it, saw the shadow of doubt that darkened his face before flitting away. “Are you certain? You’re under no legal obligation to provide such,” he reminded him, scrutinizing Will as if he might decipher the trick hidden within. A Trojan horse that obscured the latent threat.

Will gave an emphatic nod. “Yes. I don’t have anything to hide.” He paused, licking his lips as he added, “you can go through my dorm room if you want. My car even. Whatever it takes to just...make this stop.” His tone was soft and pleading, toying the line of what he might deem pathetic in any other circumstances but was clever now. A worn disguise.

Even if Jack remained unswayed- made even more suspicious, as though Will’s certainty to hand over his DNA came from his confidence that there would be nothing to compare it to rather than it would not be a match to what would be discovered- it was of little importance. It would look good in the end; on the report, to the other agents who weren’t so colored by bias as Jack had become.

With any hope, Jack would be deemed obsessed until Will’s innocence was declared, his cooperation well noted throughout the investigation. A victim of circumstance and the careful construction of crimes done by another.

Jack lowered his hand as he considered Will, tapping his fingers against the table in a sporadic rhythm, lips parted in thought. “We would certainly appreciate your cooperation,” he said slowly- carefully. “I’d have to get some paperwork for you to sign off, waivers of consent. But I can arrange for you to see a forensic analyst in about an hour. As for your dorm and car, they make take longer to get to but I’d like to take your offer on that as well.”

“Okay. I’ll sign whatever you need,” he said.

Jack rose without preamble then, grabbing the file and pad of paper as he came around the table. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll get the paperwork started.” He came to a stop beside Will, chin tipped to his chest as he looked down at the younger man. “Would you feel more comfortable with a male or female doctor?” he asked, the words hushed as though others might overhear.

Will glanced up at him, blinking rapidly before slanting his gaze away. It was the first genuine sentiment offered by the man, and there was discomfort found in the kindness. He preferred the mimicry of such, the game they had played rather than this thing that felt too close to pity.

“Female,” he mumbled, looking down to his linked hands, picking at the loose cuticles of his fingernails.

Jack said nothing, lingering beside him for a moment longer before leaving the room. The door clicked shut, the silence left behind in his absence jarring. There would be no evidence, he reminded himself. An assurance of the work he and Hannibal had done.

His heart was steady, devoid of the staccato thrum of anxiety that might otherwise make it undulate. He wondered if Hannibal’s heart was so steady in the hours before a kill. If killing had become so much a part of his character that his body adapted. Finding peace and comfort in the chaos and slaughter, even as he stood before the very men working to capture him.

~x~

The room Will was brought to was sterile, filled with a pervasive chill that seeped outward from the metal surfaces. A chill that was exaggerated by the sparse clothes that had not been taken from his form for a quick sweep. Dressed only in his thin boxers and the cotton tee-shirt, he felt vulnerable. Stripped raw and exposed like a nerve beneath torn skin. His arms folded over his chest, eyes lowered to consider his bare feet on the clean floor.

A full DNA panel, Crawford had called it. Almost certainly an intimidation tactic, a ploy to make Will believe they had more than they did. Noah’s body still had not been found, his car dismantled and scrapped just as the man himself had been. The wires and pieces of the automobile as indecipherable as the organs pushed through a meat grinder. His DNA would be collected and stored, kept in the hopes that there would be a match should they find any evidence that was too well buried.

Still, it was a hard thought to swallow, his stomach twisting at the image of police officers overturning his dorm room. Thin mattress flipped over and clothing collected. A search that would turn up nothing, his room bare of anything incriminating though it would not matter. The presence of the officers in his room would simply be gasoline to the fire that Lounds had ignited, turning him into a psychopath at worst and a pariah at best.

“Do you sleepwalk often?” the FBI agent asked. Crawford had called her Katz, he recalled, eyes falling on the name tag pinned to her white lab coat, partially obscured by the dark hair that fell over her shoulder.  _ Beverly. _

His gaze fell away, sliding over the sharp angles of the metal examination tables. They reflected the light from above, harsh and too-bright, buzzing halogen like floodlights. His jaw clenched, the crowns of his teeth dragging across each other in a slow and painful grind. It looked like a hospital room.

“On and off. Since I was little,” he muttered in response. “Stress-induced, a doctor said.”

She glanced at him, eyes narrowed in appraisal before turning away, lowering them to the metal cart in front of her. A gloved hand reached forward, pinching around the end of a cotton swab. “Cheek swab,” she explained, twirling it once through the air. Instinctively, his mouth fell open, tongue flattening to keep from obstructing her path.

The cotton dragged across the soft tissue of his mouth in a practiced motion, leaving behind an unpleasant dryness in its trail. It was pulled away, slipped within a plastic bag- already labeled, he saw, his name and information in small typeface on the sticker that stretched across it.

“You have a remarkable habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, then,” she said, her tone a jarring mix of sardonic and playful.

His lips clamped close, tongue tracing over the inside of his cheek as he chewed on the statement. “Always have, it seems,” he remarked, words laced with bitterness. The implication was clear, and she fell silent as she resumed the rest of the collection, Will turned into a specimen for her examination.

The teeth of the comb dragged through his hair, disheveling and separating the curls. Several passes until strands clung to the plastic, the entire comb slipped within the bag. “I’ll check under your fingernails next,” she explained, producing a slim metal instrument as she held her hand out, waiting expectantly for him to settle his own in her palm.

He hesitated, fingers twitching where they sat spread over his thigh before raising it and settling it into her own. Her hand held him still as the other maneuvered the pick, slipping it beneath his fingernail. Fingernails he had cleaned thoroughly, dragging them across a bar of soap during his shower. They yielded little, and she made a thoughtful sound as that instrument was packed away as well.

Several more tests, each performed in silence. The pile of evidence- fragments of himself- growing steadily larger and clutter the metal tray. Labeled and organized, ready to be stowed away. His fingers blotted with ink, spilling into the etched lines of his prints. A folded piece of gauze, held to the bend of his elbow with tape. He was startled when she finally spoke, too lost in the feel of his itching skin- cleaned and prodded at with clinical detachment.

“Will you sign a release for your records from your previous physician’s? Medication histories, charts, dental records-”

“No,” he answered, punctuating the single statement with a sharp jerk of his head. His tongue ran over his teeth, the memory of digging them into Hannibal’s flesh lingering in the dips of the bones, beneath the root. The taste of his blood a vivid tang. He didn’t know how likely it was that his bite mark would be discovered- that enough interest in it would come to pass but he certainly wouldn’t make the connection so easy for them. He cleared his throat, turning away from her as he muttered below his breath, “I’d like to keep some things to myself. As long as I can, at least.”

His anxiety was creeping into him now, unfurling with each second that crawled past; ambling and clumsy. The smell of antiseptic burning with each breath, isopropyl alcohol a dizzying scent from where Beverly had cleaned the tools and prepped his skin for the press of a needle.

Whatever ease he had cultivated as he sat opposite Jack had all but dissipated, nerves fraying. It felt too clinical, the familiar routine of a doctor’s visit and he pinched his eyes closed, counting his breaths until it was over and he could  _ leave _ .

Until his heart rate would settle once more.

“Jack’s bark is worse than his bite,” she said after several minutes passed in quiet, startling him from his thoughts. He blinked at her, his mind slow to adjust from such an abrupt departure from his thoughts. A firm but not painful pressure wound around his hand and he lowered his gaze to find her gloved hand curled around his own- the skin of his thighs marked with red streaks. A nervous tick, the trimmed nails etching into his flesh with instinctual ease.

He pulled his hand away, pressing his forearm to his stomach. “Is he always so…” he started to say, hesitating on the right word to encapsulate the man.

Beverly smirked, quirking a brow. “Mean? Scary? Or obsessive?” she supplied, her tone conspiratorial- delighting in the thrill of talking about her boss in such a manner.

Will tipped his head, lips twitching into a hesitant grin. “All of the above?”

The tools of her tray clattered noisily as she arranged the samples, humming softly in thought. “He takes the Ripper very personally. His white whale, if you will,” she explained, pulling the latex gloves from her hand with a snap that reverberated off the metal surfaces of the lab. “You know how sometimes when you have a nightmare and wake up...even though you know you’re awake and that it wasn’t real, you still can’t help but jump at the shadows?”

Will grimaced, nodding hastily at the metaphor. He was all too familiar with nightmares, the sort that lingered long after the veil of slumber dropped and the morning light filtered in through the windows of his room.

“That’s sort of what’s happening here, I think. You’ve got yourself a little tangled up in a shadow,” she said. She flourished her hand out to the tray before her, the neatly labeled collection of his DNA samples. Shards plucked away and tucked within sealed bags before they would be analyzed. Pulled apart and pressed between thin pieces of glass for the microscope. Reduced down to the sequences of his genes. “Hopefully, these will help shine a light and he can move on once he sees there’s nothing there.”

Will narrowed his eyes, his expression quizzical as he asked, “You don’t think I did it? You think I’m innocent?”

She was slower to answer, lips pursing as she considered her words. After a moment, she said in a measured and carefully constructed tone, “I don’t think you are anything at the moment. My job is to collect and interpret evidence. I try to hold my judgment until I have enough of it to make a fair one.”

_ Fair.  _ It felt like a loaded word, weighted as the bullet tucked within the chamber of a gun. “Jack doesn’t care about evidence?” he asked, the words dry and condemning.

“Jack uses different evidence. Profiling is less technical than what I do but no less real for him,” she said, a non-answer that toed the respective lines she sat between. Her judgment carefully stowed away all while defending Jack for his. _ Fair _ , he thought once more.

Catching the flicker of apprehension that skittered across his face, she offered him a reassuring smile.“Don’t worry. If you didn’t do it, then the evidence will clear you.” The addendum to the statement went unspoken.  _ And if you did do it, then the evidence will condemn you. _

_ Fair. _

He nodded, returning the smile tentatively. The evidence would condemn someone, though not him. Or Hannibal. His mind wandered, twisting with the memory of Lounds striding away from him, a promise to interview Chilton on her tongue. A ploy so obvious it seemed Crawford was hoping Will might discover it. Another intimidation tactic.

One that would amount to nothing. Whatever Chilton might say about him to Lounds would be lost in time, unpublished words left to rot in the file of her computer. She would be dead before any story might come to pass, and there would be  _ evidence _ , though none that would lead to Will.

He thought of once more of the word fair. How malleable it is; dependent on so many factors that could be controlled and owned. Contrived fairness.

He thought of Chilton in the very prison cell he once promised Will would make his home. Wasting behind the iron bars and plied with sedatives and drugs to numb and ease his  _ violent _ mind. His mouth and chest congested with garbled words that would go unheard, festering within the cage of his ivory bones.

He would live out the rest of his life within the cage, subjected to the whims of doctors and orderlies. Turned into nothing more than a lab rat, kept alive for the sole purpose of studying because the Chesapeake Ripper was without definition. Without classification, and they would peel and prod within his brain as they tried to define him. Reduce him to the barest of his person. Reduce down to the few words scrawled across his patient intake sheet-  _ a danger to himself and others. _

_ Fair. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because as we all know, every Hannibal fic is markedly improved with some wholesome Will and Bev interactions. (No I will not take any criticism on that). Will is going to charm his way out of this mess. God Bless him.
> 
> Also! I created a [Tumblr](https://reneeh-art.tumblr.com/) specifically for my art if anyone is interested, as well as a [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_Renee_Hart) for story updates, feral behavior, and uncensored art- since Twitter is the much cooler parent and lets me share penises. It's mostly traditional art (porn) and will be the home to a Hannigram webcomic I've been working on so if you're interested give a follow!
> 
> NEXT UP: okay for real this time, they're hunting Freddie. (Fun fact, the hunt for Freddie was one of the first scenes I wrote for this story) The chapter is about 70% done and will be posted within the next two weeks!


	26. Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm a tad bit behind on responding to reviews from the previous chapter, but I promise I will get them all done by tonight! Thank you all again for all your kind words and patience!)

“Is that all you’re going to eat?”

Will glanced up at the question, startled from his thoughts. He and his dad sat at the kitchen table- loose fliers and bills pushed aside to make room for them. A pizza box sat between, the lid tossed open and several slices missing- grease stains marring the cardboard.

He lowered his gaze, staring at the half-eaten slice- cheese separating from the crust. “I’m not that hungry,” he said with a shrug, dropping the slice to the plate and wiping his hand down his pajama pants. It was late by the time they arrived home; later still by the time they realized the hour and that they had yet to consider dinner- driven more by an awareness that they should make an attempt at the meal than an actual desire to eat. Will’s return home was unexpected and it had been weeks since William had done proper shopping. The pantries and fridge were sparse, only tinned pasta and freezer burnt meat lining the shelves; pizza had been an easier solution.

“The last few days have been bad but...it’ll get better,” William said, lips twitching into a smile that faltered and dropped with his uncertainty. “What did Crawford ask you today?”

He picked up his pizza, taking a too-large bite to stall on the question. “Just...about where I was. Alibis and stuff. Mostly stuff about the kid from my school,” he said once he finished chewing.

“How do you think it went?” he asked, the words tentative. As though he didn’t quite want to know, would rather the whole thing disappear.

Will shifted in his seat, tearing pieces off his pizza. His stomach was too twisted to eat, adrenaline already beginning its sluggish crawl through his body in anticipation of the night to come. He glanced at the stove, the digital numbers etching the time. Eight thirty-six. Hannibal would arrive at the end of the hour.

“Fine. I didn’t have a public breakdown so it’s been one of my better interrogations,” he muttered wryly, his chair screeching noisily across the linoleum floor as he rose from the table. Before his father could respond, stammering on what to say, Will reached for his cup, pulling it across the table as he asked, “want more soda?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said with a grateful smile. Will smiled in return, bringing both glasses to the counter- his back turned to his father. His movements were slow, shielded by the large and folded sleeves of his hooded sweater. His hand sunk into the pouch pocket that sat on his belly, dragged downward by the slight weight of the glass vial Hannibal had given- the measuring syringe rolling beneath it.

“I can’t imagine how tough it all is,” his dad continued, the words forced through his discomfort. Will pursed his lips, though said nothing to interrupt- letting the sound of his father’s voice drown out the clinking of the vial as he measured out the appropriate dose. “Going through this again when things were getting better. But I’m sure they’ll realize it’s all a mistake soon. Just have to jump through all these hoops first.”

Will hummed in response, depositing the clear liquid into William’s glass. He slipped the syringe and vial back into his pocket and pulled a can of soda from where they sat by the stove, flipping the tab back with a hiss of carbonation. It chugged noisily as he poured it, foam rising to the top. “Hopefully,” he said, turning back around once both glasses were full and returning to the table. “No matter what, school’s gonna suck. Maybe I should look into online classes,” he said, sitting in his chair and lowering his head as he picked at his nails. “Not sure if I can because of my labs though.”

He heard rather than saw William sip from the medicated glass, lowering it with a clink. “How about your girlfriend? Callie, right? Maybe you should give her a call. I’m sure she would like to hear from you,” he suggested, pulling a sigh from Will.

His phone still sat ignored in his bedroom, purposefully kept on though silenced with the _do not disturb_ feature. It would remain that way, a forged alibi that, while not perfect, was less suspicious than keeping it turned off. He had received several more messages and phone calls throughout the day, all of them gone unanswered.

He shrugged, finally raising his gaze. His eyes followed the arc of the glass as his dad brought it to his lips once more. It seemed the saccharine taste and sharp hiss of the bubbles was suitable at hiding the bitter taste of the drug, and he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Maybe. Not as if it matters. I don’t think we’ll be together for too much longer.”

William set his drink down, brows furrowed. “I thought you really liked her. She’s the one that went fishing with you a few times, right?”

“I do, and yeah. It’s a mercy break up,” he said humorlessly, rising once more from the table. He started cleaning the mess from their dinner, grease-saturated napkins tossed onto his plate with the torn pieces of pizza. “It will just be easier, I think. And it’s not like we’ve been together very long.”

The trash can clattered as he stepped on the peddle, the lid rising back and dropping down unceremoniously once his refuse had been deposited. “I’m going to take the dogs out for a quick pee,” he said, clipping the uncomfortable conversation to a blunt end.

His dad didn’t protest as he slipped through the back door, holding it open for the parade of animals that jettisoned from within. He crossed his arms over his chest once the last of the canines had brushed past him, letting the door slam back into its frame with little warning. Gooseflesh prickled beneath the sleeves of his sweater, a shiver trembling down his spine though it was one of the warmer nights of the season, the air thick and wet. He only moved as far out as the ring of the porch light that shrouded the ground, keeping at bay the nighttime shadows. The dogs were trained well enough to not move beyond the tree line, a distant chorus of barking that punctuated the air as they chased one another, disrupting the chirp of cicadas.

The sky was deep blue, not quite the velvet blackness of night- still glowing with the forgotten light of dusk, stars too dim to be seen just yet. The transitional state between day and night, existing in a place outside the universe.

He glanced down at his wrist, chewing his lip as he read the time on his watch. Hannibal would be here soon, and he rose onto the balls of his feet as though he might see the man lurking just on the outskirts of the property if he craned himself enough.

Was he already here? Hidden behind the foliage, waiting with his preternatural sense until the moment would be right and he could move onward?

He settled back on his soles, glancing to the screen door behind him, illuminated by the golden light of the kitchen. Maybe he should have given his dad the drug sooner. What if it took too long to take effect? Would Hannibal know to stay back lest he alerted William to his presence?

How pathetic it would be to have it all come to such an unfulfilling end because of timing.

His anticipation for the night to begin was a sear in his belly, _excitement_ thrumming within him. It had been so long since his last proper kill- something planned and executed, something he could _enjoy._ And though it brought with it a great burden of its own, he was looking forward to it. Wanting it to be over with yet delighting in the savagery of it while it lasted.

Too long since Hobbs. Longer still since he had killed with Hannibal, and that thought brought with it a dizzying whir.

They had only killed together once, a time that was clear in his mind yet distant. How long ago it seemed since he had sunk his hand within the soft tissues of pulsating organs. A moment he had wanted for longer than he could understand and now that it had passed it had become preserved in his mind, calcified and cemented.

Yet, his and Hannibal’s relationship was decidedly _different_ when they killed Sutcliffe. Still marked by distrust, Will careful to keep him at arm’s length under the belief that he was different from him. That he was less hungry, more controlled. That he would be able to turn his back on the want that he wrongfully believed crippled Hannibal before realizing it was what allowed him to be wholly free.

How different would it be to kill as equals? Or at least on something more even-keeled?

His thoughts came to an abrupt end when he was startled by the sound of a large clatter erupting from the kitchen, followed by the bright and bursting sound of glass shattering.

He stilled, eyes narrowing as he glanced once more to the screen door. “Dad?” he shouted out, hesitating when he received no answer.

With a quick whistle to call the dogs to his side, he jumped up the stairs of the porch, each step croaking with his weight. He tossed the door open, stumbling into the room as the dogs crowded around- pitched, distressed whines as they felt the wave of anxiety that suddenly crashed against him.

“Fuck!” he hissed, eyes widening at the sight before him.

The table was turned over, fragments of glass spilled haphazardly across the floor, soda a tacky mess on the peeling linoleum and seeping into the mail that had been tossed unceremoniously with the rest of it all. His dad lay beside the table, supine on the floor- his forehead a brilliant shade of red from where it connected with the surface as he fell. Toppled by whatever drug Hannibal had given him.

Panic ratcheted through him at the sight, and he barely had the presence of mind to shoo the dogs from the room- clicking his tongue until they darted down the hall, a flurry of clawed feet. He fell to his knees when he was alone, reaching a hand out before pulling it back. As though he would make it worse, his touch making him crumble even further.

How _bad_ was it? It was hard to tell, objectively. Head injuries could be severe and what were the signs when the other had sunk into unconsciousness? There was no speech to slur, no gaze to grow vacant and listless.

“ _Fuckfuckfuck,”_ he muttered, slapping a hand against the floor. What if he needed to go to a hospital?

How would he explain the tranquilizer thick in his blood?

“Will?”

He swiveled at the sound of his name, turning wide eyes to where Hannibal stood in the doorway, filling the threshold with his imposing frame. He released an exhale at the sight of him, feeling his muscles unwind as realization struck him. _He was a doctor._

He would make sure he was _okay._

He resisted the desire to reach for him, throwing his arms around Hannibal’s waist in a relieved hug. Instead, he remained kneeling by his father, watching as Hannibal's gaze lowered to the scene stretched before him, head tilting nonchalantly in consideration.

“Whatever happened here?” he asked, a touch of amusement warming his voice, and Will’s brow knitted, jaw clenched.

“What the hell did you give me? I walked away for fifteen minutes and he busted his head on the table,” he said, his tone frenzied, the words hitched over the panic that was steadily waning in his speech.

“A fast-acting barbiturate. What did you expect would happen?” Hannibal explained, his tone nonplussed even as he regarded the unconscious man, head still tipped to the side. He strode across the kitchen, standing beside Will and kneeling down to examine William more thoroughly, unflappable even as his fingertips brushed across the reddening bruise that colored his forehead.

“I don’t know, I’d at least thought he’d have the sense to go to bed when he started to feel woozy,” Will said, watching as Hannibal lowered his attention to William’s closed eyes, using his thumb and middle finger to pull the lid apart. His head tilted and craned, his own gaze narrowing as he considered the stagnant pupil. Will peered over, rising forward on his knees and trying to see what it was Hannibal saw. The pupil was not blown, no damage to the eye that his untrained gaze could see.

“He doesn’t have a concussion. Or at least, only a mild one if he did,” he said after a moment, pulling his hand back and shifting his weight to his heels. Will scoffed, rolling his eyes in a wide and crude gesture- exaggerated in the hopes that Hannibal wouldn’t mistake it for something more innocuous- even as the hammering of his heart came down in increments. Relief flooded his synapses, thankful that he had not unknowingly harmed his father with the reckless dosing.

“More concerning will be explaining a bruise he will not remember. Though I suppose that may be in our benefit,” Hannibal began, pushing himself to a stand only to bend at the waist, hooking his hands beneath William’s arms. “You can tell him he hit his head and you helped him to bed. Here, get his feet and we’ll bring him upstairs. We'll clean this up before we leave.”

Will scrambled to follow suit, mindful of the glass and mess strewed about the floor and grasped hold of the limp ankles. They rose him carefully between them, taking slow and sure steps as they began their navigation through the home. They made their way through the connecting hall, Will’s eyes narrowing as he spotted the large pack of dogs sprawled out across the living room floor. They sat in the cascading warmth of the space heater, curled up and content on their assorted beddings. “How’d you get in without making noise anyway?”

He turned to face Hannibal just in time to catch the slow, lazy stretch of a grin across his angled face. “I’ve brought some homemade sausage.”

“Useless is what you all are,” he muttered half-heartedly. Perhaps he would have to make it a point to train them on guarding the home if only to deprive Hannibal of the satisfaction of bribing the animals.

They were silent as they continued up the stairs, the quiet broken only as Will directed Hannibal to the room at the end of the hall. The upper level was bathed in shadows, the moonlight as it filtered in through the windows in dim slivers the only light to guide them. Yet, the furniture was sparse, the floor clear of clutter and they made it through with little fumbling, easing William onto the bed.

Will flicked on the bedside lamp, his movements quick as he tried to prepare his father for the evening- hoping it might look more purposeful- less suspicious- if he was arranged properly.

“How long will he be out for?” he asked, once his shoes were removed and set beside the closet and the covers pulled over his form.

“You gave him fifteen milligrams?” Hannibal asked, continuing once Will had jerked his head in a quick nod. “Eight hours, give or take. He will be groggy though, so he will most likely sleep a few additional hours. It will have completely left his system without a trace after twelve hours. There will be a shift change for Lounds’s security detail in an hour, with the next change over at eight in the morning. We will have until then to be home and settled before the inevitable call to Jack.”

Will pursed his lips, considering the timeline set before them. Nearly twelve hours, yet it still seemed too little, the tension of the noose as it tightened its hold too great. The final stretch of quiet before his world would unravel, descend into the chaos perpetuated and orchestrated by his own machinations. “We should get going then. I just have to change and grab a spare set of clothes,” he said, sparing his father one final glance and offering an unspoken apology before turning the light off once more. For all intents and purposes, he was fast asleep to the world.

The passage to his own room was less ambling, the floorboards creaking in echo as Hannibal followed behind him. He barely stepped into the room and turned the light on before he was crossing it, pushed forward by a firm form until he was pressed against the end of the bed. Hannibal’s chest was pressed tightly to his back, head lowering so his lips brushed against the shell of his ear.

“Mister Brown paid you a visit today,” he stated, matter-of-factly. The words were a ghost, a whisper that made his curls shift with air and a shudder tremble down his spine. “You still smell like him.”

“He wanted to know if I did it,” he said, shucking in a breath as Hannibal wound an arm around him, his hand sliding under his sweater and undershirt to rub at his warm skin. Teeth nipped at his earlobe, rolling it delicately between his jaw.

“Did he kiss you again?” Hannibal asked as he released his hold of Will’s ear, voice roughed with jealousy, slanted with possessiveness.

“Yes.”

Hannibal growled at the answer, fingers curling so he dragged his nails across the plane of Will’s torso. He moved quickly then, with all the strength and agility of the predator he was; hands gripping Will’s hips and hoisting him up. He was tossed on the bed, scrambling to his hands and knees as the mattress dipped, Hannibal kneeling behind him.

He pressed a hand to the small of his back, urging him down until Will lay flat against the bed. His legs were spread as Hannibal sat between them; he leaned forward, hands holding him up as he bracketed Will’s head. He bowed his head, lips finding his ears once more as Will laid his head to the side to glance up at him.

“Mister Brown is very stupid indeed,” he murmured.

Will fought against the shiver that trembled down his spine, raising his chin as much as his position prone on the bed allowed him to. “You’re the one who started talking to him.”

“He has his usefulness,” Hannibal said, more to himself than to Will. His weight shifted, perched on his knees and one hand as he settled the other to rest on Will’s back, fingers tracing the arch of his spine. A delicate touch, barely felt through the thick material of his sweater and Will whined, raising his back up and leaning into the broad palm. “Though he’s trying my patience as of late. I dislike his smell on you.”

Will resisted the desire to roll his eyes, a taunting remark melting on his tongue. Instead, he said, “Like yours better?”

“Yes,” he hissed, the word sibilant as it curled around Will’s ear. “But I prefer yours most of all.”

He keened beneath that, the tilt of his back rising to meet Hannibal’s chest more instinctual than it was purposeful. A plea for firmer contact, for something more direct. How thrilling it all was, prodding at the monster within him. He enjoyed being possessed in such a way- not owned but coveted. Protected by a snarling beast that beckoned only for him. Before he could think better of it, he said, “He tried to do more.”

Hannibal stilled, his hand settling around the nape of his neck. His fingers entwined in the curls that grew there, pinching the locks in his grasp. “Did you?”

“No,” he answered, adding after a moment. “I didn’t want to.”

Hannibal hummed, his hand slipping until he was cradling the back of Will’s head, sifting idly through the curls. It felt pleasant, a touch he ached for in a different way than the hungrier craving for more intimate touches. “Why not?” Hannibal asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

“I just want you.”

“Why?”

He considered the hand soothing through his hair, the gentle caress of the trusses. The more demanding touches he offered until Will was consumed with pleasure, splitting apart like a fissure. Touches he once reviled, that once made his anxiety and adrenaline spike so that he could focus on nothing except the shallow hitch of his breath and the thready beat of his heart. “You make me feel good,” he answered after a moment.

He inhaled when Hannibal tightened his fingers, tugging his hair and using it to pull his head up. “I enjoy making you feel good. I enjoy making you flush with pleasure and hearing all those pretty noises you make. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of the sight of you in the throes of passion or the feel of you writhing against me.” The moan slipped between Will’s lips before he could stop it, arching into the touch. His chin tipped upward, head craned back in Hannibal’s holds even as he ground his hips against the mattress. He was hard, his erection an aching throb that he tried to abate with the friction.

Hannibal paused in his speech, a soft laugh punctuating the silence. He shifted his weight toward his heels, keeping his fist curled in Will’s hair as the other settled on his lower back. He pressed downward, driving the lithe body deeper into the mattress. Will choked on a gasp, bucking his hips in uneven thrusts. “But if someone else can provide that for you, who am I to deny you all the pleasure you want?”

He narrowed his eyes, lips parting on a sigh. “You’d let me be with someone else?”

“If that is what you wish. I find I have a hard time saying no to you. Though I make no promises about how long your other paramours will live. Retreat to whoever’s bed you like, just know that mine will be the only one you return to.” The words were tapered, sharpened like a blade. A threat, though not for Will. A threat for anyone that Will might seek out, that might dare to touch him.

Once more, there was a thrill to it. That Will might hunt this way, abating a long-forgotten desire for touch while satiating his well-familiarized lust for blood all at once. Controlling his own personal monster in such a voyeuristic way.

A wanton fantasy, and he suspected it would stay that way. For all the thrill of it, it would be a shadow- a poor facsimile of the pleasure he might find beneath Hannibal’s touch and his alone. A thrill to knowing Hannibal didn’t consider whatever strange relationship was slowly forming between them as ownership, declaring Will’s body as though it were his own. “I don’t want anyone else. Just you,” he said, still rutting against the bed and rumpling the covers beneath him, guided by Hannibal’s firm hand.

Hannibal made a sound not entirely unlike a purr, his delight at the declaration a tangible thing. And it wasn’t simply a declaration, he knew, but the truth.

Before he had time to consider the revelation or its implication, he was being moved once more, hoisted easily in the air. His world spun, orbiting on its axis, and when he finally settled it was in Hannibal’s lap, the older man stretched out on his bed- propped up by the pillows and headboard.

He blinked at the sudden change in position, stiffening when he felt the hard press of Hannibal’s erection against him. “What-”

“Touch yourself, then. Show me how you’d touch yourself when you would talk to me,” he said, his voice a low and roughened timbre that made Will shudder even as his face reddened. It was such an intimate act, one tinged with shame and humiliation that once more felt ridiculous. Hadn’t they already shared it before, even if through a veil of separation? Hannibal had already seen him and touched him- there was little more to hide.

Yet, it was all still new, and he hesitated, rubbing his palms over his thighs and licking his lips.

As if sensing his apprehension, Hannibal slid a hand across his waist, slipping it beneath the layers of his shirt and sweater so his palm smoothed over his torso. The fabric was rucked up as his hand rose, fingers brushing across his nipple and pulling a sharp gasp from his throat. His head tipped back, resting on Hannibal’s shoulder and the man lowered his lips to his ear as he said, _“Please.”_

His cock twitched at the word, the fingers pinching his nipple until it pebbled from the attention. He didn’t hesitate then as he reached for his pants, tugging the knot of the waistband loose and pushing the pants down to his midthigh, dragging his boxers down with it. His erection sprung free, unheeded by the restraining fabric. He curled his hand around the shaft, inhaling sharply at the contact- ignoring the simmering doubt in his belly at such keen observation.

He dragged his fist upward, palm folding over the crown and smearing precome to ease the glide, repeating the tug several times. His legs fell apart, spreading as he relaxed against Hannibal, hips canting forward to meet his fist. Hannibal’s other hand had slipped beneath his shirt- fabric bunched around his middle as fingers played idly with each sensitive bud.

Each touch was a current, warming his vein and sending bolts of arousal to strike within him before pooling in his groin. His uncertainty slackened from him in increments until he was mewing lewdly, brow wrinkled with his ministrations. He bucked his hips forward, rolling them back in a slow and purposeful grind against Hannibal’s clothed erection. He earned a hiss for his efforts, nails dragging into the sensitive skin stretched across his pectorals.

Hannibal made a soft sound of appreciation as he hooked his chin over Will’s shoulder. “Does that feel good? Fucking into your own fist?”

He whimpered at the crude language, all the filthier on someone so refined. He swallowed, licking his lips as he said, “It would feel better if it was you touching me.”

He felt rather than heard the chuckle that reverberated in Hannibal’s chest, shaking against his back. “I bet it would. But I would like to watch,” Hannibal said. He slid a hand out from under his clothes, wrapping it around Will’s chin and jerking it toward him. Will found his gaze easily despite the haze of his vision, clouded by lust and the fan of his lashes as they fluttered over his half-lidded eyes. He didn’t release the hold of his chin, thumb smoothing circles into the freshly shaven skin- smooth and soft. “I’d like to see your face when you come. I want to see how beautiful you look, lost in yourself and your bliss.”

Will blushed at the praise, hips faltering from the rhythm of his thrusts. He didn’t turn away though, forcing himself to focus on the dark eyes before him- the color of light when filtered through polished amber, threads of maroon darkening the iris. “Have you thought about it a lot? When you touch yourself?” he asked, his voice thready and hitched over his breaths- almost unrecognizable in the tilt of pleasure.

“I’ve thought about you in a thousand different ways. I look forward to seeing how my fantasies compare with reality,” he said, a loud moan pulled from Will’s lips before he could clamp down on it.

He enjoyed knowing that Hannibal thought of him in such intimate moments; enjoyed being desired. It was foreign and strange yet not entirely unwelcome, and there was a scandalous delight in imagining someone so refined and polished engaged in something so lewd. He imagined him dressed in his usual manner, a rigid three-piece suit- expensive trousers pulled open and his large cock worked between his dexterous touch. A suit that was ruined when he came, come spilling over his fist and Will’s name falling from his tongue.

What fantasies did he touch himself to? How did Will contort in his mind? Which were his favorite? The ones that made him come so hard his vision was swallowed by shadows, stars bursting with the pressure?

“How do they compare?” Will asked, words hitched over his uneven breaths.

“They don’t,” Hannibal said simply, flattening his palm to rest against Will’s cheek. Warm and soft, the skin supple despite the near-constant press of a blade held in his grasp. His fingertips traced across the arch of his cheekbone, holding Will in place as he tipped his head forward, capturing his lips in a kiss.

It was slow and languid, though no less hungry and impassioned. So jarringly different from the way Matthew had kissed him only hours earlier and he sighed beneath it, tilting his head back to find a better angle. The hand under his shirt shifted, trailing down the firm lines of his belly, muscles contracting in the mount of his pleasure. It snaked across his waist, sliding down Will’s forearm until it folded over the hand wrapped around his cock, hips stuttering as he rose to thrust into his fist.

A lingering touch, one that did not guide him- simply laid over his own as he continued to work himself. As if he might commit to memory the sort of touch Will preferred, how firm he liked his grip. He tightened his grasp, muscles straining as he flexed his legs, pulling them in so his socked feet were perched on Hannibal’s knees.

He moved his hips in strategic rolls, firm motions that ground against Hannibal's length that was an incessant press to his bottom. His movements only became more erratic, rougher with each sound ripped from behind Hannibal’s teeth; hitched breaths and soft moans he was unable to clamp down on as Will writhed in his lap.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Hannibal said, the words chiding even as it punctuated on a pleasured sigh.

Will’s lips curved into a smile, eyes fluttering closed. He wondered if he might drag Hannibal to the edge of pleasure from his rocking hips alone; bringing him to orgasm from the friction of his own residual pleasure. Staining the inside of his trousers from his release and there was a thrill in being the one responsible for such a loss of control.

It only spurred him, hips driving forward and back in a near manic pitch, fucking into his fist, Hannibal’s hand still laid over his.

The muscles of his groin began to clench, pulled taut with the familiar tension of his approaching orgasm. He flexed his legs, drawing them in closer as he tightened his hold around his cock to a touch just shy of painful.

“I’m close,” he murmured, the words embarrassingly churned into a pant. His brow twitched, jaw tensing. Each muscle within him seemed to contract, pinching like the string of a bow as it was tugged back. He opened his eyes into a half-lidded gaze, blinking at the blurred, looming face only inches from his own. A face paralyzed in rapt attention, watching him with such shrewdness that he felt a prickle of self-doubt warm his spine before he hastily stoppered it, ignoring the flip of his stomach.

Hannibal was enraptured by him; by the visible strain of the muscles beneath his flushed skin made tacky by the sweat that had broken out across his brow. By the ruffled curls that clung to his forehead and the part of his lips as he huffed out heaving breaths. It was both unnerving and humbling, faltering beneath the sear of an audience to such a display even as a smaller part of him reveled in it.

How _adored_ he felt.

How _loved._

“Talk to me?” he said, the words forming a question rather than the coaxing demand he intended them to be.

Yet, Hannibal was indulgent as ever, lowering his head to brush his nose against Will’s brow, nostrils flaring on an inhale. Smelling the scent of his fevered pleasure, perhaps- delighted that any traces of Matthew had been smothered in the peppery perfume of arousal.

“Do you enjoy the sound of my voice so much?” he asked, lilting his tone mockingly- playful. “Does it alone bring you as much pleasure as my touch?”

Will hummed, chest vibrating with the purr of his moans as it rose and fell in small, hasty arcs. “ _You_ bring me pleasure,” he corrected. Maybe that was why he liked hearing the sound of his voice mingling with his own moans and the lewd slap of skin against wet skin. A crutch he could latch onto with greedy hands; a tangible reminder that it was Hannibal holding him close; Hannibal watching him as he fell apart so sweetly.

What a gift it was, trusting someone to catch you as you shattered.

A gift he was certain Hannibal understood and appreciated as well, the older man growling at the declaration. The hand that had hitherto been simply folded over Will’s own was prying him loose, grasping hold of his swollen cock. The foreign touch felt all the more delectable, his pleasure fissuring in his chest and pooling in his belly as Will gasped, arching his back.

“Sweet, tempting thing,” Hannibal purred, his breath a hot brush against his face. “How stunning you are, twisting in my lap for me. It was foolish of me to think I could resist touching you and taking your moans for myself.” His fingers tightened, mimicking Will’s harsh hold of himself, quick to find the same pace Will had set before his hand was batted away.

Too soon, he was barreling to the mount of pleasure, toes curling within his socks as his heels dug painfully into Hannibal’s thighs. His hips rose to meet each downward drag of Hannibal’s fist, several pumps before he was groaning, his cock pulsing as it spurted his release.

“ _Hannibal,”_ he said, elongating the sound of his name so it tapered on a sigh as he flinched with the spasms contorting through him. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw falling open as he panted breaths against Hannibal’s neck. His body convulsed, tremors like currents through his limbs, hips bucking in erratic and jarring motions.

“How delectable my name sounds on your tongue,” Hannibal said, slowing his hand though not quite relenting as he worked Will until he was limp and squirming. Too much, the touch overwhelming on the delicate nerves.

A torment that didn’t last for long, Hannibal mercifully releasing hold of him. Will fell slack, legs extending and sliding off from their perch. His lungs expanded in wide, gulping breaths, eyes closed against the technicolor sparks of light that illuminated his vision.

Kisses were pressed to his damp locks, hair shifting with each inhale and exhale as Hannibal languished in his scent. Entirely his own now, no longer muddied by the smell of another.

One hand sat against Will’s upper thigh, palm warm and slick with come; the other had lowered to his belly, smoothing circles against the supple flesh, his shirt still rucked up beneath his chin to expose him to the room. His body was soft, molded against the firm support that was Hannibal beneath him. He felt weighted, heavy in the haze of his orgasm yet perfectly content.

Satisfied to have broken Hannibal’s resolve, urging him to touch him even after he claimed to simply want to watch. “You really do have trouble saying no to me, don’t you?” he taunted after several minutes passed of silence, listening only to the sounds of his ragged breathing as he settled down from the high of his orgasm. His tone was smug, lips curling into an uneven grin as he finally opened his eyes, batting his lashes as he glanced up to catch Hannibal’s gaze.

Hannibal's lips quirked into his typical half-smile, a delicate impression that cut into his angled face. A soft gesture, blurring the harsh features that made him look both severe and elegant. “I often find myself overwhelmed by the depth of my feelings for you, and as such ill-prepared to deprive you,” he said, his tone muted. Humbled, or at least as close to it as someone such as Hannibal was capable of being. “They are unfamiliar, yet each sacrifice has proven to be worth my while.”

Will's smile fell at the words, swallowing thickly as he fell silent before them. His own stumbled on his tongue, cluttered behind his teeth. He had never been _good_ with words, strangling himself on the things he struggled to say. His chest would sooner shatter, grind to shards with the pressure of it all before his lips would part on them.

Words were _difficult._ Requiring a certainty and a sense of self he didn’t often feel, unable to enunciate them- to give voice to all the senseless and indiscernible thoughts that rarely ever felt like his own. And things were never so confusing as they were when he stood beneath the weight of Hannibal’s love for him.

So he forewent the words altogether, twisting around until he was holding himself up above the older man, his legs spreading to make room for Will to slot himself in. Hannibal was still hard, firmer even from Will’s relentless writhing as he convulsed with the force of his orgasm, and he inhaled a sharp breath when Will overlaid his hand to the bulge.

“Will-” Hannibal hissed, his head tipping back to rest against the wall he was propped against, hips rising to chase more of the pressure as Will massaged him through his slacks.

“We were interrupted last time,” he said as if in explanation, eyes wide as he looked up at him, hoping he would understand. He wanted to make him feel good, as good he felt when Hannibal held him and touched him while whispering praises in his ear.

He pushed himself up, pressing his lips to Hannibal’s in an earnest, pleading kiss. A kiss he dragged down, seeking out the soft flesh of his throat; kissing the pulse that thrummed beneath. His hands busied themselves with the task of undoing his trousers, tugging them and the briefs down to his mid-thigh. His erection sprung free, red and weeping, thick in arousal.

He was less hesitant as he took him in his mouth, more confident in his want. One hand gripped Hannibal’s thigh as if seeking support, something solid to latch himself onto as the other curled around the shaft, working Hannibal’s cock with both his mouth and touch. His head bobbed up and down, drinking in each moan and sigh that Hannibal offered, reveling in the sound of his name when spoken with such desire. Fingers threaded through his hair, petting his curls back to keep his face unobstructed and he glanced up, holding Hannibal’s gaze.

When Hannibal came, it was with Will’s name on his lips, uttered over and over like a psalm before he was pulling Will up. He kissed him as though the taste of his spend on Will’s tongue made him all the sweeter. As though he wished to consume him; perhaps he did. The ultimate and most sinful feast and the thought shouldn’t have been as thrilling as it was. As _arousing_ as it was.

How startling it was to find pleasure in such a thing. Yet he was more startled by the simple fact that he was _happy_. Ludicrously happy. Happier than he had ever been with the lingering taste of come in his mouth and he let himself fall pliant in Hannibal’s hold, lazy kisses passed between them. Only for a few minutes, he told himself as if in compromise, aware that it would have to come to an end so the evening could begin.

~x~

The night was balmy, one of the warmer nights of the season so far and the air was thick and humid, the chirp of cicadas an encompassing sound. The highway stretching beside the motel was darkened, illuminated only by the slim quarter face of the moon and halogen lighting of the motel sign that stood like a figure in the shadows, black font letters held over the backlit sign to read _VACANCY._

The cars that passed were few, and there were even fewer left in the expanse of the parking lot- there was nothing of particular note to claim tourists in its maw- too far away from the general excitement of Quantico and the nearby cities to be of convenience and the few patrons of the establishments were merely passerbys. Travelers on a long journey that pulled off the interstate for a few hours of sleep and abysmal instant coffee found in the lobby beside several boxes of stale cereal and styrofoam bowls.

And one tabloid journalist, the pale blue Toyota parked at the end of a line of rooms beside a black SUV, a pale glow emitting from behind the blinds, divided into segments of light.

Freddie Lounds was staying in a motel closer to Wolf Trap than it was Quantico, the rates more affordable in the stretch of nothingness than it was toward the city. The drive took fifteen minutes though it felt nearer to five, the engine of the car idling as they sat in the back of the lot, far from the security detail and the few cameras that hung under the overhang of the building. Only near the lobby, none scattering across the rooms.

“Are we...we’re not killing them, are we?” Will asked, licking his lips as he leaned forward, eyes narrowed in the direction of the SUV.

In answer, Hannibal reached into the center console, producing two syringes- a cap protecting the sharp edge of the needle. It was preloaded, the barrel filled with a clear fluid, the meniscus shifting as he shook it in his hand- sheathed by leather driving gloves. “Their windows are down. We will have to act quickly, but we should be able to do it without killing them. Leaving too many bodies behind would be a sharp deviation for the Ripper and a struggle might prematurely alert Miss Lounds. There are disposable gloves in there as well.”

Will reached for them, sliding them on his hands with a snap. Anticipation was building, flooding his senses. Once more, he felt weightless though it was so different from the weightlessness he felt as he slumped against Hannibal in his bed, limbs heavy and trembling. Loftier, as though he were untethered from the world.

If being with Hannibal grounded him, then killing set him loose.

He plucked one of the syringes from his hand, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“There’s one more thing, in the glove box,” Hannibal said.

Will leaned forward, pulling the latch so the compartment dropped down. He pulled the contents out, fingers curling around the plastic suit- folded into an awkward and bulky square. He held it out to Hannibal, frowning when the man glanced at it and turned away.

“That is for you, Will,” he said, reaching for the ignition and twisting the keys. The car came to a sudden halt, stilling beneath him. He plucked the keys out, slipping them in his pocket as he turned to Will, a brow raised. “This is your pig, Will. Your hunt.”

~x~

Hannibal thought it funny, the reversal of roles the two of them had fallen into as he made his way to the motel room. As alike as he and Will were, they had their distinct differences. Slight alterations in how they preferred to operate.

He tended to hunt. Catalog and stalk his victims, maintaining the control of the altercation to follow. Will, however, liked to take a less direct approach. Luring his victims with batting eyes and false premises, lies offered on a silver tongue. Charming in all the opposing ways that Hannibal was charming, inspiring others to want to help him.

It was the same tactic he had used on Hannibal years ago, weaponizing his tears and Hannibal’s desire to see him shatter. The same one he used on Hobbs as he recounted how he killed him.

Yet now it was Hannibal to stood as the bait, slanting his gaze across the lot to ensure Will had hidden well.

He was not disappointed, finding no trace of the younger man amid the poorly-lit and empty space.

Hannibal came to a stop outside the room, considering a rock on the ground beside the door and he dragged it forward with his foot, holding it beneath his heel as he rose a hand and rapped his knuckles against the door. Green paint flaking off to reveal the plywood beneath, silver numbers tarnished with rust bolted to the door. _Twenty-Seven._ Rooms twenty-six to fourteen were unoccupied, a buffer of sound that would work in their favor.

There was music coming from behind the door, something synthetic with a rhythmic beat though the volume was lowered, soft undulations he could not decipher as the door was pulled open. Freddie stood in the frame, her vibrant red curls cascading over her shoulder- dampened from a recent shower and smelling overly fragrant. Green apple-scented shampoo paired jarringly with the too-sweet musk of coconut body wash.

She blinked at the sight of Hannibal, lips skewing into a frown as she arched a brow. “Listen, Agent Crawford told me I didn’t have to recant-”

“I’m not here for that,” he interjected, tone leveled.

Her lips were parted, formed in the shape of whatever word had sat on her tongue and she slowly clasped them together, raising an arm to rest against the doorframe as she tilted her head inquisitively. “Then why are you here, Doctor Lecter?” The words were coy, her keen intuition perhaps sniffing out the story that simmered beneath the surface of his facade.

“Though I may disagree with it, I understand your journalistic integrity in not recanting the story. Furthermore, you were correct in your assessment that it would do no good. Whatever assumptions have been made were made already, and no amount of backpedaling will fix that,” he began, pausing in his explanation for only a moment before adding, “but perhaps we can at least amend the story so it's honest instead of conjecture. As you know, Miss Lounds, I was Will’s therapist during Sutcliffe’s murder. There is no greater authority on what may have been going through his head at the time other than Will himself, seeing as his professional relationship with Doctor Chilton had long since come to an end. And seeing as he wasn't so keen to an interview earlier this afternoon, so that would make me the next best thing.”

Her eyes gleamed with understanding, twinkling beneath the white light of the outdoor sconce- a bare bulb, moths fluttering uneasily around the coiled tubes. “But Doctor, I thought he was protected by doctor-patient confidentiality,” she teased, lips twisting into an uneven smirk.

He inclined his head, lowering his chin as he brought a finger to his lips. “It is for that matter I hope that, in exchange for a more thorough and fair story, you might keep your sources unspecified.”

“How very unethical of you,” she quipped, peering her head around the door to spare a brief glance to the FBI agents meant to keep watch.

Unconscious, given drugs stronger than the one’s flooding William’s veins. There was no need to hide what had been done to them, and he had been liberal in his selection. They would not wake until long after Freddie was dead- long after their replacements would arrive for their shift. Yet, they appeared alert enough, heads carefully arranged to keep their chins from tipping forward, the blue light of a laptop casting an eerie glow against them.

Satisfied by her furtive glance, she stepped aside as she opened the door to the room, inviting Hannibal in with a swooping gesture. It was well-lived in; a suitcase sat open on the floor, untidy clothes tossed inside the compartment. Several pairs of shoes were kicked beside it, and the dresser was covered in assorted packages of colorfully wrapped snacks. A vanity, adorned with makeup and sundries, was placed beside the furniture, the seat unevenly arranged beneath it. He smiled at his cursory glance, stepping into the room and rolling the rock beneath his shoe, careful to keep it propped within the door so it was held ajar.

Freddie didn’t notice, turning her back to him as she returned to the bed- covers pushed aside and a laptop sitting at the foot- the screen cast a pale, blue glow on her fair skin as she settled down and pulled it into her lap. The music was coming from the speakers, tinny and distorted but he could decipher some of the lyrics as he moved closer, strode through the room to sit opposite her in the desk chair sat beside the door to the bathroom. He glanced up, gaze lingering on the door of the motel room behind her shoulder before sliding to her face, offering a cordial smile when she glanced up.

“Sorry, I wasn’t exactly prepared for another interview today. I’ll have to re-use some of the questions I asked Doctor Chilton, but maybe that’s not so bad. Compare and contrast,” she said, reaching for a notepad that she flipped through with sharp, jerking gestures. Settling on the page she was searching for- cluttered with large, bubbly writing that impressed on the thin paper, she pulled it close and cleared her throat. “Okay, so, I guess my first question is how you came to be Will’s therapist and for how long you knew him before you referred him to someone else,” she asked. The music continued to play, lowered to a soft pulse between them and he frowned once at the slotted speakers before returning his gaze to her.

“Doctor Bloom referred him to me mid-September, though our first appointment was held in the first week of October, so for three months before the death of Donald Sutcliffe. One appointment a week until his health began to decline in November and I started seeing him twice a week,” he answered, crossing his legs neatly and folding his gloved hands in his lap- leather driving gloves that were warm, palms slicked with sweat and she had yet to say anything about them. Her self-preservation taking a backseat to the story she clambered for. “I don’t typically work with minors, but Alana is a good friend of mine and I confess to some curiosity in regards to his empathy disorder.”

She glanced up at that, eyes bright over the screen of her computer as her fingers tapped aggressively at the keys. “His empathy disorder is definitely an area of curiosity for me as well. I’ve read all the articles his doctors wrote about it but I’m wondering what you’re experience was like with it. Did it make him hard to treat because he was disingenuous?”

“Disingenuous isn’t quite the word I would use, as that implies intent on behalf of the person being insincere. Will Graham has very little control in how he adopts the personality of others, and the complication came not from him pretending to be someone he was not, but being unsure of who he was to begin with,” he explained. “Everything from his cadence and syntax to his mannerisms are imposed upon him from others. It can be difficult to figure out where you sit when so many others invade your brain. That was the primary focus of our sessions- helping Will to understand who he was.”

Her eyes sharpened, a manicured brow raising. “Shouldn’t the focus have been on helping him control his violent thoughts?”

Hannibal shrugged, lips pulling into a wide smile. “I would argue those are one in the same.”

She hummed at that, a terse sound pulled from her throat. “How do you think it went, then? Did you help Will understand who he was?”

He nodded, smile slipping. “I believe I did, yes.”

Her gaze was quizzical, calculating as she studied the slope of his frown. She rose a hand, lowering the computer screen minutely to better see his face as she asked, “Jack Crawford believes that Will knew the Ripper. Or, at the very least, the Ripper knew him. That Sutcliffe was killed for Will. Do you agree with that statement?”

He considered the question for a moment before nodding. “Yes.”

Her lips curled into a smile, intrigue writ on her face. “Care to explain that a little more thoroughly for me, Doctor?”

He leaned back in his chair, keeping his gaze steady on her face even as he caught sight of movement in his periphery- the door slowly pushed open and then closed once more in its frame as a figure slunk quietly into the room. “I believe they know each other, and that Will is aware of what he is.”

Her eyes were wide at the admission, gaze hungry as she canted her body forward, intrigued by his candidness. “Jack Crawford thinks the Ripper is in love with him. Do you agree with that as well?” she asked, gleaming as she waited for his answer. Perhaps considering the witty taglines to adorn the groan-worthy headline she would no doubt pen. All cliches and flowery prose, the sort one would find on the cover of inexpensive harlequin novels.

“Yes. I believe the Ripper has devoted himself entirely to Will and that Sutcliffe was a gift of his courtship. At the time that I was his therapist, I believed him to be innocent as he has a penchant for manipulation and the circumstances of his overwhelming abuse made me blind with sympathy,” he said, careful to ignore the movement as Will crossed the room in slow, purposeful steps. He was a shadow crawling over the wall, unseen by the reporter who looked to Hannibal with unabashed interest.

“So it’s true, then? He was abused by Sutcliffe?” she asked, her tone matter-of-fact. Less surprised by this statement, having all but confirmed it herself by her crude connections.

He was quiet for a moment as if taking the time to decide whether or not he wanted to answer such a question before relenting with a sigh. “Yes. As such, I made allowances and excuses for his behavior that in hindsight were clearly indicative of something more sinister.”

She hummed in understanding, tapping noisily against the keys. He could see the reflection of the device in her eyes, blurring and bright as her words filled the screen. “You said he knows who the Ripper is. Do you think they have a relationship?” she asked, gaze flicking up.

“They know each other intimately. The Ripper is so wholly consumed by his love for him that he would do anything he asked. Kill anyone he asked him too,” he said, his voice soft and muted so that the threat was unnoticed. A warning enveloped within each consonant and vowel, as though it were a charity on his part, giving her the opportunity to realize her error.

An opportunity she did not take, narrowing her eyes as she asked, “He controls the Ripper?”

Will was prowling now, growing restless in the room even as Hannibal refused to look at him. The plastic suit was a subtle creak with each shifting stepping, muffled by the music that still filtered through the speakers. His lips twitched as he suppressed a smile.

Too impatient for a hunt, then. Too eager once the prey sat before him to stretch out the moments before he would lurch.

“No. Control implies a lack of consent in the matter. The Ripper is not a hound dog he commands,” he said.

Her eyes brightened with understanding- her shrewdness catching onto the implication of his words. “He’s a dutiful lover,” she said, lips splitting in a smile.

A smile he mirrored, his chest warm. “Yes.”

“You were with him Christmas Eve, right? When Sutcliffe was killed?” she asked suddenly, latching onto a train of thought as her fingers flitted across the keypad. He nodded, voicing his affirmative when she had yet to glance back up at him. “Jack thinks Will arranged to have Sutcliffe killed on Christmas Eve and then orchestrated it so that you would be his alibi while the Ripper did his dirty work. Do you believe that’s what happened? In hindsight?”

“No,” he said, blinking at the confused expression her face twisted into as she finally tore her gaze away from the computer. Her brow furrowed, crinkles rippling around her eyes as her lips parted. He grinned then, a jagged and feline grin that revealed a mouth with crooked teeth. Too many, too sharp. “It was my idea,” he said, voice lowering as he slipped into something less of a facade. Something more dangerous.

She blinked once, slackening her hold on her laptop so it slid partially down her thighs. “What?” she asked, though the wrinkle in her brow was already smoothing- understanding the implication with each passing second though she had yet to act on it.

He stood from his chair, fussing with the buttons of his jacket. She remained seated- paralyzed in the way one often was when only just beginning to understand the dangers of a situation they were in; her head tilted back to keep her gaze on his face as he continued, “And he did most of it. I just helped fine-tune the details. But most of it was Will’s idea. Cutting off his hands and feeding them to him, burying him in a pauper’s grave. But the alibi was my idea, as were the flowers and altar.” He paused, finally glancing across the room to settle on Will, finding his eyes with ease. He spoke to him as he added, “I wanted to give him a gift.”

Realization struck her all at once, and she lurched forward, reaching for her discarded phone only for Hannibal to swoop down- plucking it before her fingers could close around the device.

She didn’t hesitate. The laptop clattered noisily as it fell to the floor, tossed aside without a second of consideration. She leveraged herself off the bed and spun, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Will, stilling in a position of half-escape. He stood in front of the door, legs spread in a steadying stance that kept his center of gravity where it would make him sturdy, eyes wide as he held her gaze.

She was still, but only for a moment. A fleeting moment that was broken by a sharp yelp, frantic and trapped between two killers. She turned on her heel- reaching for the first object found on the vanity behind her. A hairdryer, the device not entirely unlike a crude mimicry of a gun, and she swung it in swooping arch just as Will took two steps to cross the distance between them.

It collided with his arm, his face crumpling into a grimace of pain even as he ignored it, reaching out. Not for her, but for the cord that hung limp and swayed with the residual movement, like a noose. Or an umbilical cord.

He tugged it before Freddie could think to drop hold of the hastily made weapon, using it as a leash to pull her forward.

She shouted as she stumbled, falling against Will. He enclosed his arms around her, a hold so tight Hannibal was certain he might bisect her petite frame.

“No, no, no,” became the prayer that fell from her tongue as she scrambled- kicked and swatted with whatever allowances she could manage. When it proved useless, she chose a different technique- tossing her head back and screaming, a strangled shout pulling against the tendons of her throat. “HELP! HELP! CALL JACK!”

Cries intended for the agents she believed to be blissfully waiting for her outside of the room. Cries which would go unheard and unanswered. Cries that came to a tapering end when Will chuckled at her.

“You can scream all you want, but nobody is going to come for you, so I’d appreciate it if you saved us all the headache,” he remarked, his voice low- delectably so. Rippling with a chill that stretched out each pointed consonant, dragged down on the sloping vowels.

He seemed surprised when she listened, her lips pursing shut as though clamping down on the sounds that bubbled within her. She studied him, quiet and calculating, eyes lowering down to the plastic suit protecting him.

Protecting everything but the very visible contours of his face.

Hannibal realized what she intended to do just as she made to do it, his voice a startling boom as he said, “drop her.”

Will did, hands raising in the air as if in surrender. She fell to the ground without his support, the manicured hand that had been meant to slide down his face- cutting into it with the dragging tug of her nails- fell instead against his chest.

She didn’t falter even as her attempt to mark her killer failed, rising to her hands and knees and scrambling through the room. Her handbag lay discarded by the bedside table, and she reached within, fingers curling around the slim canister of pepper spray just as Will’s own hand grabbed a fistful of sodden hair. Red locks grasped tightly between his gloved fingers, and she gave a pained shout as he yanked her head back, exposing the white column of her throat.

He was more mindful of his face now, ducking appropriately to the side when she twisted her hand behind her and held down the cap of the spray. It hissed with the release of the noxious chemical, sputtering against Will’s hair and leaving a film of condensation against the outside of the plastic suit. But he kept his gaze averted, face tucking into place against her own as he dropped to his knees on the floor behind her. Still holding her hair in a vice-like grip, he reached around with the other, careful to use his forearm as a bar against her throat.

She choked on the single breath before her windpipe was crushed, dropping hold of the canister to scrabble against his arm. Weak attempts to pry free of his hold, desperate clawing motions that slid against the sheath he wore.

She tried again to reach behind her, to at least cut whatever damning streaks of red into his face she could but Will was quick to pull his head back. Nails caught only the suit that would not give, her frustration evident even as she grew weaker, more sluggish in his hold.

He sat back, pulling her into his lap and crossing his legs over her- a more firm and certain lock. He lowered his head, lips finding her ear as he began to shush her, the gentle sound somehow imbued with such mockery; the facsimile of a kind gesture between loved ones.

Hannibal strode through the room then, having kept his distance through the furtive struggle out of intrigue; a desire to watch Will rather than assist him. Confident that he would be more than capable and now that she had been subdued well enough he wished to be closer. Wished to see the wine-colored lips, darkened in deoxygenation, and the bulge of her veins against the near translucent sheen of her flesh.

“Very wily, Miss Lounds,” he said, stepping before them and kneeling in front of her, head lowered to examine her face. He wasn’t disappointed, the straining veins blue beneath the paper-white skin, lips the color of Merlot as they parted around choked, gurgling attempts for breath. Spit pooled on her tongue, spilling from the corners of her mouth and smearing down her sharp chin, and her gaze was listless. Struggling to remain alert, to clutch at her consciousness for as long as she could. They fell to Hannibal’s, not so much bothering with a plea for help. Merely dull, lackluster as she sat on the precipice between awake and alive and the _other_. The things that would follow the moment blackness ebbed her vision and she gave in to the slackening of her limbs.

How many articles had she written on the Ripper? How many times did she herself detail the cruelties and torture doled out by his hand?

Was each written word coming to her then? Resurfacing in the cloud of her thoughts?

“I’d expect nothing less but for you to fight until the bitter end,” he said, lips pulling into a conciliatory smile. “You’ve always been so clever and resourceful. Perhaps we’ll eat your heart.”

The promise went unheard, light slipping from her eyes before they fluttered shut, her hands dropping to her lap from where they pathetically clutched at Will’s arm.

She slumped in his wicked embrace, falling limp as her head hung- red curls a vibrant curtain that obscured her face from view.

“Release hold of her throat but not her,” Hannibal said. Will’s head snapped forward at the sound of his voice as if he was so lost in the hunt that he had forgotten he wasn’t alone until he was spoken to, lips parting in heavy breaths. He nodded, loosening his clasp against her throat but still holding her flesh against him- releasing hold of her hair to wind both arms around her torso.

“Some clever pigs will fake falling unconscious so you’ll stop,” he advised playfully, glancing up at Will once he was satisfied she was not faking.

His face was flush, red from the quick yet intense sprint around the room, eyes bright and sparkling with the thrill of the chase. Stunning, Hannibal thought; almost resentful that he would never be able to do it justice in his recreation. There was too much limitation with charcoal and graphite, unable to contain the brilliance and beauty set before him. Dulling and dampening it no matter how fervently he might try.

He would never tire of it. Would forever gorge himself on the sight and presence of Will without succumbing to the gluttony. Both famine and a feast and he leaned forward, stealing a kiss to lips the color of cherries, reddened in extertion. They tasted just as sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys are too horny. I can’t have them in a single scene together without them shoving their tongue down each other’s throats. Story progression? Plot development? They don’t know her. All they know is fuck.
> 
> I really wanted to get this out for Valentine’s Day because I went so long without updating but also it’s their first murder date in so long, it deserves to be celebratory. However, my goal is to get set up enough to update on a schedule, twice a month, every other Wednesday beginning the twenty-forth. 
> 
> Hopefully, life will cooperate with me for once. 
> 
> NEXT UP: Freddie wakes up to a considerate feast, and the FBI is alerted to her abduction.


	27. Worship

Consciousness came to Freddie slowly. The way one awakes from a particularly deep sleep, fighting against the downward drag of sluggish thoughts and heavy eyelids. She felt weighted, aware of herself and the space she occupied, body throbbing with a residual ache. She tried to raise her head only to gasp softly at the sharp pain that struck through her at the movement- beginning from the back of her head and shooting through as though pressing on the back of her eyes. Her pulse was a palpable thing, each beat of her heart pressing against the soft tissue of her brain.

It felt swollen, though she knew that was absurd. An illusion crafted from the pain which felt as though she were falling apart- threatening to burst through her skull and seep through the cracks.

She let her head hang, chin pressed to the flat plane of her collar. Allowed the minutes to creep onward as her consciousness bled into reality. She became aware of things in increments.

Aware that she was sat upright in a chair, a thick chord bound across her waist and pinching too tightly into her skin. Set just below her ribcage so that each breath was unrestricted even as she felt bisected by the action, severed in two.

She was aware that her hands were not tied- not to the arms of the chair or clasped at the wrist. They sat neatly folded in her lap, fingers twitching and the medical tape that kept the needle held to the back of her left hand stretched with each shift of the tendon.

She hesitated before turning her right hand over, curling the fingers into her palm in an experimental gesture.

So it was not a paralytic churning through her veins, then.

She was aware of voices- distant, the words indistinct and muffled by distance but the cadence was clear. The structure of sentences and two separate pitches and the memory from only hours earlier trickled downward. Like the slip of a bead of water down a plane of glass. Slow and arduous, shaking with uncertainty but it did settle into place- colors dulled and forms shifting into shadows.

Recalled the sight of Hannibal Lecter filling her doorframe in the motel, his promise of a story an entreaty that she offered.

She stepped aside with a smile as the Chesapeake Ripper wandered into her sanctuary- had performed the role of hostess to the monster that had tortured and killed so many. Crimes she documented so carefully, a wicked delight thrilling her with each flourishing rumor of a fresh kill. A desire to be the one to report it _first._ To report it _best._

A laugh slipped from between her parted lips. A curt and sharp sound, as crooked as the humor that inspired it and she clenched her jaw to clamp down on the noise. To swallow it whole before it was heard by the two men and alert them of her consciousness.

“Gentlemen, I believe your guest is awake,” a voice called. Low and thin, spoken through exhaustion and her brows knitted. It tugged at her brain, edged with a familiarity that was just out of reach.

Footsteps padded across the floor, growing nearer and nearer until a finger slid between her chin and chest, tipping her head up with a disorienting gentleness. A gentleness that was at odds with the throb of her head and the bruised ache of her throat.

She blinked her eyes open, squinting in the golden light that sat like a halo behind Hannibal Lecter- the branching antlers of his chandelier framing his head. It called to mind crowns of thorns, holy images desecrated and mocked by the lazy etch of his smirk as it cut across his face.

“That she has, Abel. Hello, Miss Lounds. What a pleasure it is for you to finally join us this evening,” he said, his accent sloping through the consonants.

She swallowed, wincing when the motion pulled at her damaged throat. _Abel._ He had said Abel and the voice that ebbed on the periphery of recognition slotted in place with the image of the escaped convict.

He never escaped. He had been abducted, held hostage, and tormented by the monster he thought he once was. A penance for his lies and slander and her chest tightened, ribs closing in and crowding on her lungs and quickening heart. She envisioned her bones splintering from the force of each of her rebelling organs- dying organs. Her skull turning to shards around an inflamed brain, ribs ground into fragments.

She lowered her gaze, unable to look into the amber-tinted eyes for too long before her traitorous mind crafted them into an illusion. Turned them the color of blood, the very color of the wine filling the well of the glass before her. She was sat at a table, the place setting arranged _just so_. Polished china reflecting the light from the twisted chandelier with a demure, pearlescent sheen and she knew instinctively that it was made from bone. She had no reference for it, had never seen dishes made from such materials in her own experience but was certain that she was staring at it now.

It seemed fitting for a final supper; the last meal offered to a prisoner when imprisonment and rehabilitation were deemed improper. When the only atonement for such crimes was the one made in slaughtered flesh and poison-rich veins.

“You’re going to kill me,” she said, each utterance inspiring a new wave of agony. She forced her brow to smooth. A small grasp at power to keep the pain from shrouding her face.

Hannibal blinked at the words, tipping his head to the side. “Well, cutting to the chase aren’t we? Eventually yes, but there’s something we’d like you to do first.” She pursed her lips, preparing to ask what dance she would be strung into like a limp marionette when he added, “But first, we shall eat.”

He moved, letting her gaze sweep across the dining room. It fell to the spot immediately opposite her, Abel Gideon sitting before his own place setting. His face was drawn, deep bags marring the soft skin below his eyes. Gray strands woven through his neatly combed hair, another striking dichotomy. It seemed even the Chesapeake Ripper had a standard of care for his victims.

Her gaze lowered to the spread set out between them, spilling across the table. A feast; platters and serving bowls filled with steaming and fragrant food. Garlic roasted broccolini and pillowy mounds of mashed sweet potatoes. A roast sat in the center of it, steam unfurling like fingers from the seared flesh.

She startled at the sound of chairs pulling outward, Lecter and Will Graham joining the table. She flinched unbidden against the restraints, bare feet sliding across the floor as she pulled them beneath the seat of the chair.

Will was no longer dressed in the plastic suit he wore to abduct her, wearing only a plain button-up flannel and jeans. Dressed no differently than the few times she had seen him since first crossing his path and yet he was unrecognizable. A displacement of the hunched and twitchy boy lurking through the halls of the Quantico.

His shoulders were pulled back, chin raised as he regarded her in equal measure, eyes the color of steel. His perusal was unflinching, harsh and unkind as though unimpressed by what he found and he offered a low scoff before turning away. He reached for the food, carefully ladling it onto his plate as Lecter leaned over, holding the roast in place as he carved it with a large, serrated blade. Metal teeth cutting through flesh, juices seeping out and spilling onto the platter and she turned away.

“Everything alright, Miss Lounds?”

She rose her hands- mindful of the tube that curled from her hand to the bag hoisted above her on a metal pole- and plucked idly at the cloth napkin. “I don’t eat meat,” she said. The place setting was perfect, missing only the knife a guest would need to cut through their protein and she considered the one in Lecter’s grasp with covetous anger.

Lecter chortled, carefully serving the portions of meat to each plate. “Ethical concerns? Do you fret over the comfort and happiness of stock animals?” His tone was tilted, as though making a very funny joke that was at her expense and her belly simmered with dread.

“It’s inhumane,” she countered, rather lamely. She doubted the Ripper- or the budding serial killer sat opposite him- were concerned by such treatment.

“Well, I promise you Miss Lounds, not a single four-legged beast was harmed in the making of this meal,” he said coyly, dropping a sliver of meat onto her plate. He remained a moment, eyes searching for her own as he added, “I employ a very ethical butcher.”

His chair creaked as he sat back down, taking hold of his utensils and cutting into his meal. Knives scraped across the surface of the plate, all three men eating the meal in silence. Will’s lips curved upward into a secret smile, bemused by the joke that everyone but her seemed to be in on.

“That’s a bit of an oxymoron, don’t you think?” she asked. She made no move to eat the offensive slab of food, nor to pull the more palatable ones toward her. He said nothing, and she inhaled slowly, grinding her teeth as it pulled at her injuries. She sat like that, sitting with the dread that curdled in her belly, bile on the back of her tongue. Listening to the sounds of their feasting, silver cutting across bone. Slow mastication from sharpened teeth.

Had they killed the agents sitting outside her rooms- the ones she had glanced in the car before welcoming her killer inside? When would her absence be noticed; the crime scene discovered?

She shivered at the term, at the thought of the room being calcified in such a way. Yellow evidence markers depicting her struggle, her fight to survive. Her belongings stashed in vacuum-sealed bags and held for processing. Reduced to a number and a case file. How dehumanizing.

She hadn’t realized she was crying until she felt the tear slip down the arch of her jaw. She sniffed discreetly against it, raising a trembling hand to wipe furtively at her cheek. The other hand fell to her waist, plucking the tight chord holding her in place to the chair. Searching for a knot though she knew she would not find one. Any opportunity to escape was simply a trick, a manufactured ploy offer by Lecter for his own amusement. Perhaps a test, to see how cunning or wily she proved to be. But never enough to relent complete control.

“You said I could interview you,” she said, swallowing the tears even as it strained to do so, voice hoarse.

Lecter turned to her, eyes gleaming with amusement. “I did. What questions do you have for me, Miss Lounds?”

She flicked her eyes over to Will, the younger man feigning detached interest though he sat straighter in his chair. Slowed his movements to not eclipse the conversation with the sound of his cutlery.

“You and Will killed Donald Sutcliffe?” she asked. It felt like an obvious question. A baseline, a foundation for her to set herself and her assorted, cluttered thoughts upon. Her memory of Lecter’s words, the harbinger for the danger that stalked behind her like a predator in wait- was vague in her recollection. Distorted and shrouded through the sheath of a funeral veil. They bubbled to the surface, the slow trickle of blood through a wound.

_It was my idea,_ he had claimed, boasting of his own cleverly contrived alibi. Too trusted by the FBI to stand as a suspect, a shadow of trust that fell upon Will. That coddled him from the condemnation of his crimes

Would he still be too-trusted as the investigation progressed, in the days and weeks to follow from her own murder? Would the monster masked as a man continue his waltz through the halls of the FBI, unbeknownst to the men and women hunting him?

How bleak a thought.

“Yes. I helped him,” Lecter said, turning away to cut his roast into neat, bite sized portions. His attention was _meticulous_ , and she glanced away, pursing her lips against the surge of nausea that struck her. Would he be so meticulous, so attentive when he cut into her flesh? Tore her apart with the surgical precision he used on all his other victims?

Victims she documented, dedicated entire articles in their name and blood?

“As a gift?” she asked, clearing her throat with a swallow as she pushed through the bitterness that clogged her chest.

Lecter was silent a moment, raising his gaze to meet Will’s, dark maroon eyes narrowing in consternation. A gift of courtship, he had called it as he delivered his own profile, distracting her from the man lurking in the shadows of her room. “Yes and no. My hands were tied rather effectively behind my back, and I had no choice but to agree in assisting.” He flashed Will a smile at the words. _Fond._ As if recalling whatever had been forged between them- _blackmail_ , she imagined- the way one might recall a proposal or the hesitant, awkward moments preceding a first kiss.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between them, landing on Gideon as though he might offer some of the missing slots of information. He pointedly ignored her, making an exaggerated show of placing a piece of meat on his tongue. His eyes closed as he chewed, a soft hum of appreciation slipping between his lips.

She turned to Will, then. A weak spot. The soft underbelly of the beast that was the Ripper- he had said as much, hadn’t he? Orchestrated the circus that was slowly confounding the entirety of the FBI for him. To protect him. “Did you kill Garret Jacob Hobbs?” she asked.

He met her accusatory gaze, holding it with his own instead of glancing away as he did so often. He was thoughtful as he chewed, his lips politely pinched closed until he swallowed. “That _was_ a gift,” he said, lips twisting into a smile as he turned to Lecter. Proud, was the word that came to mind. Delighted by his own offering. A crude and cruel courtship, flirtation found in the torment and fetid flesh of the victims they slaughtered. Nausea fluttered within her once more, grimacing as Will added, “Noah was a bit brash on my part. Impulsiveness.”

Her brow crinkled, nostrils flaring in disgust. How easily he dismissed the life of another. The _murder_ of another. Reducing them to a set of circumstances and ill-thought behavior.

“Am I another gift?” she asked, turning to Lecter. Her indictment of Will in her article sat in her mind, corroding within her memory in the way mistakes often did when gifted with hindsight. Regret a palpable ache that seeped into her bones.

_A dutiful lover._

He frowned, leveling her with an admonishing glance. A mockery of one, insincerity setting the line of his brow. “Now, now, Miss Lounds...you are so much more than a gift. We have big plans for you. For both of you, in fact,” he said, glancing to Gideon with gleaming eyes before turning back to her, lips parting to reveal sharpened teeth. “I really must insist you eat, Miss Lounds. I’d rather not force you, but I will if you continue to be stubborn.”

She scowled, pointedly ignoring the sliver of meat on the plate before her, steam billowing around her with the fragrant scent of the cut. “Plans? What exactly do you plan to do when Jack Crawford sees I’m missing? Because I don’t believe you’re so stupid to fall right into a trap he spelled out for you.”

“Agent Crawford has fallen into my snare long before I’ve seemingly wandered into his. We’re just having a bit of fun before he thinks he’s won.” His grin was wide, playful- yet she was still unsettled by the coy wink of an eye he offered her.

“Thinks he’s won? You’ve got a patsy lined up, don’t you? The guiltier you look, the better,” she said, frowning as her head fell back with the realization of her words. The plummeting drag of dread like cement in her stomach.

How bitter. How _awful_ to know the ones responsible for her death would not be the ones condemned for it.

He turned from her, satisfied with the horror draining her face of all color as he turned his focus to Gideon instead. "You are aware, of course, that your time with us is coming to an end?"

  
  


"Shorter by the minute,” he quipped, his tone sardonic and crooked. He rose a hand, slapping the palm of it to the tops of his thighs, hidden by the table. "I'd say it's an honor to at least be killed by the Chesapeake Ripper and Co. But that honor feels a little tarnished knowing you plan on foisting it all on someone else, and I’m sure _Miss Lounds_ would agree." He paused then, dragging the tines of his fork idly across his plate. His brow furrowed, lips twisting as he asked, "Who?"

Will was the one to answer, quirking a brow as he reached for the wine glass set to the left of his setting. He pinched the stem, bringing it to his nose and giving it a gentle swirl. "And ruin the surprise?"

"I'll be long gone by then. Call it a reward. Or additional torture, depending on who will wear the crown."

"Torture," Will muttered into the wine, punctuating the answer with a soft huff of laughter that made the liquid sputter within the well.

Lecter smiled, his own chuckle a warm crackle of sound. "Perhaps knowing your jail cell will soon be occupied by the very man who once held the key to it will be a small sort of comfort."

Gideon blinked, chewing the riddle with the meat that rested in the crowns of his teeth before saying, "Chilton? Talk about bittersweet." He sighed, a weary and exaggerated sound; as though his death and legacy coming to an end at the hands of such a doctor was more egregious of a slight than the torment he was no doubt facing in his dying days. A greater offense than the promise of death itself and perhaps it was.

A victim of Chilton’s incompetence, his sense of self so fractured and distorted that his reflection was unrecognizable to him.

Will was a victim as well, in a different way. A victim of negligence and she could understand why Chilton was chosen. How fitting of a patsy he seemed, aligning himself too cleanly within the Ripper’s narrative. So desperate for glory- a desperation that would curdle with the unveiling of their efforts.

“I suppose there’s something poetic about it all. Cyclical and all that,” Gideon mumbled, more to himself than to the company sat around the table in some perverse celebration.

“Chilton was a lousy surgeon. That’s why he switched to psychiatry. You don’t think they’ll get suspicious that his skill and the Ripper’s are incongruent?” she asked, drawing Lecter’s attention away from the man who once unknowingly stole his identity.

“Miss Lounds, flattery will get you nowhere,” he teased coquettishly. He rose, reaching a hand behind him to pull the chair out from under him without dragging it across the parquet flooring. He stepped aside, crossing the small distance between them until he was once more standing beside her. Her body thrummed, wanting to flinch away even as she resisted it. As if obstinance alone would save her.

He leaned forward, plucking her fork from where it remained, untouched. He used it to steady the meat as he began to slice it with the knife still held in his hand, the overhead light glinting menacingly off the metallic blade. “But to answer your question, no, I’m not very concerned. It doesn’t matter where their suspicions lie. Only where their evidence does. Only what they can prove. And we will make sure that Chilton will be found guilty without a shadow of a doubt.”

She watched as he finished cutting the serving into bite-sized portions, the knife clutched in his hand as he stuck a piece onto the fork. He rose it carefully from the plate, readying to bring it to her lips as she slumped back as much as her heavy muscles would allow. She tipped her head to look up at him, licking her lips tentatively. “And then what? You can’t just keep killing. Not the same way, at least,” she said. She swallowed, falling silent for a moment before adding, “you’ve done this before, haven’t you? Pinned someone else for your crimes and took off?”

Hannibal smiled, pleased with her deductions. “You know, Miss Lounds, it is precisely that astuteness that made your gutter journalism tolerable. Within the purple prose and blurred ethical and legal barriers of your articles, there was a well of intuition that was sneered at. I’m going to miss it, I think.” He set the knife down- too far away for her impaired reach to grasp for it- and used the hand to clutch at her jaw, holding her in place as he once more brought the forkful of food to her lips.

“You don’t have to. You can let me live so I can tell your story. The real one. I could-” she said, her pleas falling short as the food was prodded against her mouth, jaw pulled apart with such force she let out a grunt of pain. Pain radiated up and down the sharp angles, chattering in her teeth.

A distracting pain, her objection to the meat forgotten as it was placed on her tongue. The fork clattered as it fell back on the surface of the table, Lecter using both holds to hold her mouth closed. She grimaced, her moans muffled behind his broad palms as she resisted against him. Each second was counted in the residual shock of pain in her jaw, an undulating ache like the tremors of an earthquake.

She relented, chewing the bite if only to keep from choking on it, teeth nipping against her own tongue in her haste to complete the task.

It was rich; fatty and decadent. Bursting with juices beneath the seared skin.

Years had passed since she last ate meat, and she struggled to place it even as she swallowed it.

She gasped when Lecter finally released hold of her, lips parting on stilted breaths as he reached for the fork once more. He speared it on another cut of meat. “No amount of intuition can justify the tastelessness you spew out in equal measure, Miss Lounds. My apologies, but there is only one more story you will be telling the world. Your own.”

She reeled back at the words, her expression pulling into one of repulsion. “I’m going to write about my own murder?”

“Don’t worry,” a voice said, and she jerked her head in direction of it, eyes falling on Will. He was still seated, though his body had turned, facing her properly as he offered her a wicked grin. “I will give you all the details you need so it’s accurate. After all, we'd hate to not take advantage of an opportunity as it's presented to us.”

~x~

Freddie Lounds died at precisely three forty-seven in the morning.

Like many of the Chesapeake Ripper's victims, she died, ultimately, by cardiac arrest brought on by the extreme duress of her final moments, coupled with the low blood pressure that followed exsanguination. She grew weak in her approaching death, screams muting to groans and whimpers that slipped between pale, spit-slicked lips.

Too sluggish from the drugs thrumming in her veins, mellowed even by the disorientation that dragged at her senses. As if slipping from a dream to reality; life and death. Choking on the blood that filled her mouth and throat as Will worked to remove the thick muscle that had been used so cruelly.

The room was quiet without her cries, despite the ever-present drone of the refrigeration unit they stood in. Quiet without the rattle of the restraints clinking against the metal bed as she made what small attempts for escape she was allowed. Even the soft squelch of organs had quieted, leaving only the rattle of death as Will bowed over her, cutting the tongue from her mouth.

Permanently silenced, her jaw distended. Teeth removed from the inflamed bed of her gums, sitting in a metal bin- forgotten for the moment, left with the red-stained tools and discarded gauze that was wadded and dark with blood. It made the work easier, less chance that Will might scrape the skin from his hands and spill his own blood and flesh down her throat.

She had been alive for each removal, gripping the tooth by the root with medical pliers. Spit and blood pooled in her mouth and spilled over her lips, feathering the pigment that stained them. A grotesque effigy in death, her mouth wrenched open in a too-wide silent scream, blood trailing like a waterfall down the slope of her chin and neck.

Hannibal observed silently from his place beside Will, seated on his stool with his body canted forward.

His cuts were cleaner, less hesitant than they had been years ago. Confident in each glide of the blade through tissue, fingers pinched around the handle. He was a fast learner, adapting to the technique of a kill with covetous ease. Though it still seemed an unnatural fit for him. Too methodical and restrained, his hands itching with a want to be less controlled. More vicious.

How easily he could envision Will tearing someone apart without the need for tools, armed only with his hands and teeth.

It was a difficult way to kill. One which left too much opportunity for evidence. Defense wounds marring his flesh, skin and blood beneath fingernails.

It was a messy way to kill. Often over too quickly rather than drawn out through the hours Hannibal preferred to take. Languishing in the torment of his pigs as he performed operations of his own sort, testing the limits of what the human body could endure.

The meat tasted freshest when it was removed from an active blood source, after all, the heart still pumping even if erratically.

But the image struck him, clutched against him like a beast he couldn’t shake. The image of Will lurching at Matthew with unfettered determination, a desire to kill spurring him forward. His struggle to incapacitate Lounds a prelude to this kill, an _amuse-bouche_ of the main course.

It would be a jarring difference, so different from how the Ripper tended to operate. But there were measures he could take, alterations he could give to dress up Matthew’s stiff and decaying corpse. Just as he had removed all of Sutcliffe’s organs when the damage from Will’s unskilled hand was too obvious, crafting illusions in the hollow of his chest.

His gaze slid, moving away from where Will’s hands disappeared in Lounds’s throat to the contours of his face. Blood was smeared across the arch of his cheek, swooping down to brush against his bare jaw.

How beautiful he looked, and Hannibal was powerless to stop himself from reaching outward, his hand finding the space between his shoulder blades- resting on top of the plastic sheath.

Will stilled at the touch, his lip twitching as a breath lodged in his throat. He ceased his methodical severing of the muscle, glancing away as he considered Hannibal from the periphery of his vision. Only for a second, swallowing harshly so that the knot of his throat bobbed with the motion before turning his focus back to the task at hand. Hannibal could feel the tension beneath his palm, shifting with each stilted movement. Felt as he slackened with ease in slow, daunting minutes.

Pleased, Hannibal hummed as his lips twitched into a smile, sliding his hand down the spine in a petting motion. He was getting better with touch; less reactionary, more accepting of the gentle caresses.

And, of course, the more intimate ones.

How Hannibal hungered for him. Wished to devour him with such fervent want it ached within his bones. He wanted to drape Will over the dinner table and feast on him until he was in tears with arousal. To sink within him and lose himself in the scent of his sweat-matted curls and the taste of his bitten lip. But he was mindful not to _push_. Mindful of not overwhelming him.

Anticipating the moment things might become too much, the dropping of the proverbial shoe. Will tended to ignore rather than confront, and he suspected there would be a moment of regression.

Hannibal was nothing if not opportunistic, though.

Touch gives the world an emotional context. The touch of others can build trust, or it can destroy it yet in its decimation was a solid enough foundation for rebuilding. One Hannibal intended to make his own.

“I got it,” Will said, pulling the severed tongue from the gaping jaw. He held it in his hands, extending it out to Hannibal for inspection. He tipped his head in perusal, smiling in satisfaction as he nodded his approval.

“Excellent work. Very clean,” he praised, taking the organ from Will’s grasp. He set it in the prepared bowl of ice water, chilled by the dry air of the cooler they stood in. “I can finish the rest. But it’s getting late, and you’ll need to shower before I bring you home.”

“What about the display?” Will asked, pulling the gloves from his hand with a snap.

“Once Jack gets word of her disappearance, he’ll have you under observation. Formal or otherwise,” Hannibal explained, beginning the task of cleaning their workspace. Not completely- he would return to it in a few hours' time to complete their work. Working in the slim space of time available to him before the investigation would quicken its pace, the start of a sounder igniting a wildfire.

“Like the last time? Giving me an alibi, I mean?” Will asked. He stood beside Lounds as Hannibal flitted around him, his gaze lowered to her prone form on the operation table. Blood a bright and vibrant blossom of color on her pale skin- translucent, the blue veins beneath her flesh visible under the white glare of the light.

How lovely it looked with her blood-colored curls.

“Yes, but with an additional contingency in place should I come under suspicion before then as well,” he said, dropping the utensils in the sink with a clatter of noise; metal scraping against metal. The water was a discordant rush of sound as he turned on the faucet, washing his hands above the stained instruments.

“Oh?” Will asked, glancing up with a wrinkled brow. He understood within the seconds that follow, eyes widening and lips parting in a smile. _“Oh,”_ he said, his chuckle muffled by the sound of plastic as he peeled the protective suit away from him. “Matthew has his usefulness, doesn’t he?”

Hannibal grinned, shutting off the water before he strode through the room. He settled a hand on Will’s shoulder, turning him from the center of the room and guiding him towards the stairs the led out of the basement. “Indeed. He’s been assisting me as needed here and there. Planting evidence and the like.”

“He was Chilton’s student, too,” Will muttered, his voice lowering conspiratorially. An obvious statement, the verbal thinking as he linked the two thoughts together. “He’ll look like an accomplice.”

  
“He is,” Hannibal said simply. “A loose end to be tied when all is said and done.”

They said nothing else as they continued through the home. Still in the early hours of the morning. A mockery of the carnage that sat in the basement below, a dichotomy to the symphony of death that had rung against the concrete walls for hours. Gideon was made pliant by the same medication used earlier in their hunt, left in his own corner of the basement with the foreboding wait that settled over him like a shroud. _Soon_.

He would be next.

Hannibal directed Will to the spare bedroom- the one he used before abandoning it in favor of Hannibal’s own. The same one he occupied after they killed Sutcliffe. _Cyclical_ , Gideon had said.

He stepped into the bathroom, flicking the light on and gesturing to the garbage bag laid out on the counter. The change of clothes Will brought with him were folded neatly beside it, prepared to be donned like a costume of innocence. Plaid pajama pants and a plain t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with his university's name and mascot. “You can dispose of your clothes there. I’ll burn them when I return.”

Will blinked up at him, lips twitching into a smile. “I know the drill,” he said in a tease, reaching for the collar of his shirt and undoing the first two buttons. Blood still smeared his face, a crude sort of war paint decorating the arch of his cheekbones.

“Excellent. Then you already know all the toiletries you need have been provided for you,” Hannibal said, turning on his heel to leave when a voice stopped him.

“Where are you going?” Will asked, frowning.

No, not frowning. _Pouting._

Hannibal stifled his smile, keeping his face blank as he rose a brow and said, “To shower. In my bathroom.”

“I want you to stay,” he said, chewing his lip as he added, “with me. Please?”

It seemed foolish to think he even needed to ask. Hannibal was helpless to say no to him, and surely he knew as such. He was toying with him, pleading at him with wide eyes, a demure and shy expression because he enjoyed knowing how devoted Hannibal was to him. Enjoyed the manipulation of getting what he wanted with little resistance.

Not entirely manipulation, he amended, considering Will for a moment as though uncertain of whether to give in. Will shifted his weight uneasily from side-to-side, untethered and adrift as he waited for Hannibal to give in.

He had grown accustomed to killing for years in solitude, finding the loneliness familiar even if oppressive. He longed to share it with another, a companionship he hadn’t known he wanted until Will had offered it. But he could make do without. A routine he adhered to with such rigidity it was as much a partnership as the physical form standing before him with wide, imploring eyes.

Yet Will was made affectionate in the moments following a kill. _Clingy_ , even, taking tentative steps forward to bridge the distance between them as his hands reached for the pressed lapel of his suit. His fingers traced delicate lines down the fabric, delighting in the buttery soft feel of it. Luxuriant.

“Of course. My apologies, I just didn’t want to overstep,” Hannibal finally said in explanation, lowering his gaze and watching as Will’s fingers slipped beneath his jacket. He pushed the garment from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor in a crumpled heap.

It didn’t bother Hannibal as much as it might have, his gaze unwavering as Will continued to undress him, finding the bronze buttons of his waistcoat and slipping them through the stitched slits. It joined his jacket within seconds, slinking down with a shuffle of fabric.

“I know. You’re not,” Will said, his voice soft. His fingers were a firmer press without the bulk of so many layers, trailing up and down the front of his shirt and nimbly pulling the tie away from the base of his neck. “Probably won’t have too much time together soon. Outside of the sounder.”

Hannibal frowned. “No, probably not.”

Will mirrored the frown, making a small sound of discontentment as he pulled Hannibal’s shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers, pushing it off of his shoulders. His hands stilled on the top of his waistband, trailing them along the edge.

He rose on the balls of his feet, placing a chaste kiss on Hannibal’s lips before finally undoing his slacks. He pushed them down his thighs, the underwear as well- stepping back to give Hannibal the room to step out from the pile of clothing.

He did, ignoring the rumpled pile as he turned his attention to Will, undressing him with the same methodical focus- though he took each garment and folded it quickly over his arm, earning a sharp scoff from the younger man that did nothing to deter the process. It was a slow and deliberate undressing, watching Will from beneath the fan of his lashes. His face was flushed, eyes heavy-lidded as though in a trance.

“It’s not uncommon to encounter a drop in neurochemicals following such intense experiences. Life and death traumas, killing,” Hannibal said, his voice covering the metallic sound of Will’s belt being undone- the leather pulled through the loops of his jeans with a hiss.

“Hmm. I know,” Will said, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m just tired. How aren’t you?”

Hannibal smirked, unbuttoning the jeans that fitted around his narrow hips. “I’ve always performed adequately with little sleep. And I napped before coming to get you,” he answered, inspiring a soft breath of laughter that he felt against his face as he leaned forward to tug the jeans down.

Will stepped back from the circle of his pants, standing in his full nudity- hands moving across his front to cover himself in an instinctual movement before he stopped himself, clasping them rigidly at his sides.

There was an intimacy in such nakedness. Such _open_ nakedness, outside of the moments reserved for touch within the detached space of a bedroom. He smiled at the sight of him, his lithe body adorned by the pink bruises made by Hannibal’s own lips. He extended a hand, fingertips tracing the constellations against the pale skin- muscles contracting beneath his touch.

His admiration came to a clipped end when Will reached for him, curling his fingers around his wrist and tugging him firmly in the direction of the shower. The slate tiles were cold beneath the soles of his feet, slanted toward the drain in the center of the nook. They warmed quickly as the water was turned on, beating noisily against them in a steady reverberation of sound. Steam curled around them, pillowing in the stall until the glass door was frosted.

Will stood beneath the fountainhead of the shower, his head tipped back so rivulets of water streamed down his face- diluting the blood as it washed over him. Pink beads trailing down the planes of his torso, blood swirling down the drain at his feet. His hair clung to his forehead and obscured his eyes; straighter with the weight of water in the locks.

There was still blood on his face when he leaned forward, pushing his sodden hair from his face. Water clung to his lashes, flicked about with each rapid blink. He reached for the glass bottle of shampoo, pumping a considerable amount into his palm.

Satisfied, he stepped forward, bridging the small distance between him and Hannibal. He brought his hands to the crown of Hannibal’s head, humming softly as he worked the lather through his hair.

Hannibal blinked down at him, surprise flashing across his face before it was replaced with contentment, lips pulling into a smile. He hunched his shoulders, letting his head fall forward to ease the slight difference in their height.

An unusual gesture, more nurturing than Will tended to be. Yet Hannibal reveled beneath the attention, the delicate if hesitant massage of slim fingers as they worked over his scalp. The fragrant scent of the soap filled his senses, clouded his mind. Rosemary and lemon, a perfume that was amplified by the steam of the shower.

Water ran down his face, carrying shampoo with it and he pinched his eyes tightly together, mindful of the sting of the soap yet doing nothing to tip his head back or brush a hand down his face.

The shampoo was washed from his head, Will cupping his chin and tilting his head back to sit more directly beneath the spray of water. He reached for the conditioner next, more emboldened with his affections as Hannibal allowed them- thrilled with them, even.

How different it was from his usual routine, Hannibal thought, letting Will guide his head back and forth as he washed the lather beneath the spray.

His routine. Preparing whatever organs he took from his pigs. Vacuum-sealing the meat, carefully cleaning and preparing kidneys and livers which were rife with toxins. Preparing his display and erecting it as he pleased.

He had not been lying when he said he needed little sleep, his body adapting to the rigorous task of such kills. An entire evening spent between the torture and killing of another before he would retire to the more banal though cleansing parts of his ritual. A perfunctory shower- often had in his basement rather than the more intimate ones on the upper levels. It was efficient that way, drains and tiles he didn’t have to worry about cleaning so thoroughly should the need arise but it was an allowance he made in favor of Will’s comfort.

He doubted Will would feel as comfortable showering in the lacking stall of the basement set up, piping exposed and with no division to the rest of the room.

His showers were often followed by sleep. A heavy sleep eased into slumber by the weighted delight of his limbs. A contented cat curling up with a full belly.

These new routines with Sutcliffe and now Lounds were unfamiliar, but already they were spoiling him, making him gluttonous with greed. The kills tasted sweeter when indulged in by another, sharing in such savage wickedness. Retiring not to a cold and rudimentary shower but to be washed by another, arms wound around his neck as Will cradled his head beneath his hands. Sleeping with the press of a body molded against his own, nestled to his chest as though they were designed for such a purpose.

Will pulled away, reaching for the bar of soap on the built-in shelf within the tiled wall. He wet it beneath the water before bringing it to Hannibal’s chest, dragging it in circles over his flesh. His other hand settled on the base of his neck as though holding him steady, balancing against him. Fingers brushing gently over the thrumming pulse of his carotid.

How unfair it was that it would not be to Hannibal’s bed they would turn to. Or at least not together. Instead, they would climb into his car- an assuming thing, one that would be scrapped in the days following the discovery of Lounds body. He would bring Will home, returning to a house that would seem too empty in his absence. A bed that seemed too large.

A temporary emptiness. One he could tolerate in the meantime.

He took the soap from Will’s hand before he had finished the task of washing him, startling the younger man with his sudden alertness. He would his arms around Will as he pulled him in for an embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangled in the wet curls. Skin wet and warm, heat emanating between them.

He had said once that he wished to worship Will, aware that it was likely to be a feeling left unrequited. A notion he made peace with, accepting the small sacrifices Will made, the offerings of his own. It was nothing to be dismissed, the trust with such intimacy was bestowed on him.

But perhaps he was wrong; Will simply worshiped in a different, less obvious way but one that was entirely his own. Tender when he was often anything but, washing his hair and skin with hesitant reverence. Naked and unobstructed when so much of his life was dedicated to disguising himself from view. Hannibal doubted he was even aware of such- aware of the devotion he offered even as he denied the intensity of it. Both repulsed by and made desperate by his want for touch and love. 

He pressed kisses to the crown of his head, lips searching for his ear and pressing kisses to that as well, tracing the shell of his ear between utterances of his love. Will didn't return them, the answering beat of the water against the tile the only sound aside from his confessions. But Will held him tighter, burrowed his face deeper into the crook of his neck, and sighed softly as he fell lax in the hold and it felt the same.

  
A confession of love in its own right.

~x~

Will awoke to the sound of the doorbell ringing several times in quick succession, accompanied by the harsh echo of a fist banging on the door. It pulled him startlingly from his sleep, eyes snapping open as he sat up in bed.

Sunlight filtered in through the window of his room, illuminating the dustmotes that fluttered in its path. It was bright outside, late into the morning and he rolled his head to look at the clock on the bedside table.

Eleven thirty-two.

He pushed the blankets aside, stepping out of bed in slow, sluggish movements, brow furrowing at the cacophony of sound coming from the lower level of his house. Pawed feet beat against the floor, the alerted barks of the dogs responding to the knocking and ringing which wouldn’t cease. A door down the hall slammed open, bouncing against the wall.

“What the hell is going on?” his dad called out, the floorboards creaking his descent down the corridor as he stumbled forward. He paused outside of Will’s room, glancing at him with eyes narrowed in a grimace, a hand rubbing gently against his forehead.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, his own exhaustion dragging down the edges of the words. He had only managed a few hours of sleep once Hannibal dropped him off, the sky already lightening with the muted glow of dawn on the horizon. Falling asleep only an hour or so before Freddie’s disappearance would be discovered with the shift change, the drugged agents found in the SUV outside of her motel room- cleared of the evidence from her struggle.

The memory of her gurgling cries as he pried teeth from her jaw had undulated in his dreams, the lingering vestiges of a day that seeped within his unconscious.

“I just woke up too,” Will added as if in defense, following after his father as the older man started down the stairs.

He wasn’t certain of the cause of their abrupt wakening, but he had an idea. The rapid and heavy sound of a fist against the door, an unending and uneven rhythm that reverberated around the farmhouse. In his plentiful experiences with law enforcement, there was one thing he came to realize: there was a specific way of knocking that all cops seemed to share.

A demand to the request to be allowed in, a final condemnation to the call that preceded the same jarring pound of a gavel to the judge’s bench.

His nerves thrummed with frenetic energy, forcing his body to come to a halt on the second step of the stairs. Anticipating the moment the door would swing open and any illusion of peace would be shattered.

Would his father be angry- at him or the FBI, believing their suspicions to be misplaced?

Or would it be mellowed, muddled with the beginning of something that one might call _doubt?_ Doubting the innocence of his son, for the first time in so long. Not even Sutcliffe’s disappearance had pierced that protective shell of his paternal love, desperate to prove to the officers even then that Will wasn’t so cruel. Would such steadfast belief begin to crumble under what stood outside that door?

William pushed through the dogs, sweeping his leg in a half-circle so that they stepped back and sat- impatiently- on the floor of the foyer. The knocking and ringing came to an abrupt end as the door opened, the frame of it cluttered by too many people- all stood behind the form of Jack Crawford.

“Agent Craw-” his dad began, the words bit off as Crawford stepped forward, holding a neatly folded pile of papers.

“A warrant to search the property,” he interjected, his tone harsh and commanding.

William blinked, glancing down at it as though confused, reaching out when seconds had passed and it had yet to be pulled back. “A warrant? For what?”

“Freddie Lounds. She’s been abducted,” he answered, his gaze sliding away from William to settle on Will. Accusatory, lips pulled into a sneer and eyes narrowed. “Can you account for your son’s whereabouts last night and this morning, Mister Graham?”

His dad sputtered, glancing between the two of them as the pages of the warrant were unfolded in his hand. “He’s been here all night. We just woke up- how did you even get a warrant? Just because she went missing doesn’t mean-”

“Judges are more liberal with warrants when we have a missing person and a very likely suspect. Your son threatened Lounds in the middle of the halls of the BAU with several witnesses to confirm it,” he explained, taking another step further into the home. The dogs crawled closer, peering curiously through the door at the agents still waiting on the porch.

“It wasn’t a threat,” William gritted weakly through his teeth- even as he stepped further back to stand on the landing, allowing entrance into the home with a resigned sigh.

Crawford frowned, raising a hand and flourishing it in a wave, signaling for the rest of his team to begin the search of their property. Faces Will recognized and faces that were unfamiliar, his eyes flicking over each agent as they looked up to him on the steps. Two men, Miriam Lass and Beverly Katz- the latter offering him a small, conciliatory smile as she brushed past him. “Lass and I will take the upstairs, Zeller and Price have the downstairs,” she said, her voice thinning as she continued her ascent up the stairs.

“The judge considered it a threat,” Jack said, nodding once in Bev’s direction to show he heard her. “And we’d like to find her alive, so we’re pursuing all theories.”

There would be no evidence to be found in the home, Will knew. A dead-end that would lead to nothing but apologies for the breach of his privacy, for the suspicion which turned his home into a crime scene. Yet his face still colored, his weight shifting with discomfort at all the things they’d _touch_ and _document_ in their search for the woman. A search that was too late.

The clock on his bedside table read eleven thirty-two.

Hannibal pre-set Lounds’s final article to post at precisely noon.

In half an hour, they would understand it was too late. Their search would come to a bitter, amputated end with the realization. A missing person investigation turning swiftly into a murder investigation.

There was a thrill, knowing he would be there to witness it all. To see the moment understanding grasped them, the ushering in of another sounder unfolding beneath their feet. Would they know that’s what it was? Would they know they were caught in the machinations of the Ripper in his final trick?

Will stepped down the final two steps, coming to stand beside his father. “I didn’t do anything,” he said, his voice soft and pleading, desperate for his dad to believe him. He widened his eyes, his gaze imploring.

William sighed, knitting his brow and wincing when doing so pulled at the tension of his bruised head, the pale skin painted a mottle violet below his hairline. He rubbed at it once more, hissing in pain.

Crawford caught the motion, his gaze following the rise of his hand and scrutinizing the bruise. “What happened to your head, Mister Graham?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some TLC (tender loving cannibals) because I guess they do know how to be not horny but they still must be Maximum Homoerotic which is a fair compromise.
> 
> NEXT UP: As TattleCrime's newest article hits publication and the investigation continues, several new suspicions start to arise.


End file.
